


A Second War

by authoressjean



Series: The Second Time [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: And schmoop, But there's Fili and Kili so you know there's going to be a few laughs too, Cavities of schmoop, Gen, Here be angst, I can't believe I'm still writing this, I seriously can't, M/M, This is like a disease I swear to god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:27:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Second Chances". Things would be a lot better if the world would leave them alone, but what little peace they had is about to be ruined. They've barely gotten past the tragedy of Sherlock, for god's sakes, and now they have to deal with someone who Sebastian would've been happy to see remain dead in Middle-Earth: Azog. Worse, the former orc seems quite content to declare war on Sebastian, again. Worse YET, he's got his sights set on the one who denied him Thorin's head: one former Bilbo Baggins, now John Watson. Even Gandalf's meddling may not be enough to keep fate from repeating.</p><p>That's fine. If Azog wants a war, well, Sebastian's more than willing to give him one. Especially when it comes to keeping his nephews and the man he loves safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I promised I wouldn't have this ready for awhile, but ta-da, I got more of it done earlier than I expected. There won't be an update until next week, but this chapter's nice and lengthy. Hopefully this sequel is just as enjoyed as the first fic.
> 
> If it's not, blame Dani; she keeps sending me all sorts of ideas and then I asdfjkl; and fic happens.

The hardest part about life, he supposed, was living it.

Watching Bilbo step forward to do just that was almost too much for his heart to take, and Gandalf’s heart had been broken too many times in the past. Goodness knows he’d spent the better part of several centuries trying to stay away from everyone, because he knew how it ended. Eventually, they all passed on, and he was left to be the immortal Gandalf the White. At least, until someone killed him, which no one had tried to do for more than a century. He’d convinced himself that he wanted nothing more to do with people of any kind, and he just wanted to be left alone. Alone was better, he supposed.

And then. Sometime around 1836, in the hustle and bustle that was Egypt, he’d caught a glimpse of one hobbit he hadn’t seen in a multitude of ages.

It had only been a glimpse, but one he’d been certain of. He’d desperately searched the square, hoping to find Bilbo, but had only been left with a great number of people who’d stared at his tall stature in awe and no little amount of fear. Bilbo had disappeared.

He’d given Gandalf a purpose, though. After that, he’d gone Baggins hunting, to try and find one of his oldest and dearest friends. After fifty years, he’d given up. If Bilbo had managed to live to his 70’s or 80’s, well, this was a time rife with humanity’s worst illnesses. And old age for a human was different than a hobbit’s longer years. He’d settled back to watch the world go by.

Then J.R.R. Tolkien had written a most peculiar series of books, and Gandalf had gone searching again.

“Hate to see him so sad over a dragon,” Kili murmured beside Gandalf. Fili snorted.

“I’ve been following the Sherlock news for a while. Seemed like a decent sort, actually. For a dragon.”

“Philip.”

“What? I’m just saying.” 

Kili fidgeted where he stood. “Should go stand with him,” he said after a moment. “It doesn’t feel right to let him stand there all on his own.”

“Kyle, Uncle’s _right behind him_.”

“Where?”

“Against the tree, right there.”

“God, you’re right. Ha, I thought he was a statue at first. One of those grievous looking ones. Don’t blink.”

“No, do not bring up Doctor Who, not now-“

“Why not? You’re not caught up yet? Philip!”

“I am caught up, I just don’t think standing in a cemetery filled with statues is the best time to bring it up-“

“Fili and Kili, if you both do not silence your nonsense for half a moment of peace, I will be forced to knock your two heads together,” Gandalf rumbled. _Philip and Kyle_ , his mind supplied him, but they responded to their age old names and settled, though with a bit of grumbling. Gandalf hid a smile behind his coffee cup.

Through the fog, he could see Bilbo standing in front of the grave that now marked the final resting place of Sherlock Holmes. It was just him left now, the rest of the grieving having left some time before. Fili – Philip – was quite right about Thorin, though: the former dwarf lord was leaning against a nearby tree, eyes permanently fixed on Bilbo. Bilbo, for the most part, seemed to be frozen in time, staring at the headstone. A part of Gandalf’s heart broke for his friend. He’d been the one to shuffle the two together, arranging the happenstance meeting between John Watson and his old friend Mike Stamford. He’d led Bilbo directly to Smaug, and the two of them had connected and helped each other. _May you know eternal peace now, Smaug,_ Gandalf blessed. Perhaps this time around, Smaug had redeemed himself enough to gain rest.

“Did he really do all those things, Gandalf?”

Gandalf blinked and brought himself to the present, where both Fili and Kili were looking at him. What had he missed now? “Did who do what?” he asked.

“Sherlock,” Fili said, before shrugging. “Smaug. The name doesn’t matter. Did he really make it all up? Was he a fraud?”

“No.” He took another sip of his coffee and gazed out into the cemetery. Bilbo’s hand raised to cover his face, and Thorin finally stepped forward at last to stand beside him. “No, he wasn’t. I have no doubt in my mind that Smaug died to save Bilbo, amongst others. He was no fraud. He was truly a calculated mind who strove to right wrongs.”

“Almost makes me not mad at him,” Fili said. “At least in this lifetime.”

“Especially when it makes John look like that,” Kili added. Fili rested a hand on Kili’s shoulder. “I feel awful about it.”

It was more tragedy than Gandalf had meant for his friend, that was certain. But the world was still filled with darkness, no matter what he did. For now, he would have to comfort himself that he had found Bilbo and Thorin, Fili and Kili. Even now, Thorin had an arm around Bilbo, pulling him in tightly to comfort him. Bilbo remained fixated upon the grave, but he leaned into the embrace.

Gandalf took a deep breath and watched his exhale fog in the air. What he wouldn’t do for a pipe filled with South Farthing leaf right about now. Cigarettes just didn’t have the same appeal as an old pipe. “Don’t feel badly about it, Kili. What’s done is done. The best we can do is move forward. Bilbo will need all the support he can get.” Though seeing the brothers had obviously done Bilbo, and Thorin, a world of good. He’d seen shadows chased from both their eyes the instant they’d seen Fili and Kili. Meddlesome wizard, Thorin called him. Well, he had good reason to.

He let a smile creep onto his face. “You’re planning on meddling some more,” Fili said, raising an eyebrow. His clean shaven face gave away his grin. “You’re really terrible at that, you know.”

Kili, who seemed eternally bound to stubble, had no qualms with showing his grin. “He likes to meddle. Who doesn’t?”

“Indeed,” Gandalf said, and took another sip of his coffee.

 

The stone seemed so cold, to mark the life of someone who’d been so vivacious, so enthusiastic, so boundless and alive. It didn’t make any sense. Why Sherlock had fallen. Why Moriarty’s body had been found with a self-inflicted gunshot. Why, if Moriarty was dead, Sherlock had stepped over the ledge and fallen and-

“John.”

The deep, soft voice pulled him back, and he realized there were tears running down his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled, wiping briskly at his eyes.

Gentle fingers wiped tears from his cheeks. “Don’t ever, ever apologize to me. Not for anything, and especially not for grieving.” Sebastian’s hand around him tightened. “You’re not standing steady.”

John could feel his legs trembling ever so slightly. God knew how long he’d been standing and staring at the headstone. SHERLOCK HOLMES stood out in such an obscene way that suddenly, all John wanted to do was put his foot through the stone, break it into a thousand million pieces. It didn’t deserve to hold his name. God, his best friend laid underneath him in a wooden box, never to do another miraculous deduction. Forever silent, forever gone.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

“One more miracle,” he murmured, stepping forward and away from Sebastian. His fingers shook as they slid across the top of the stone. Cold. So bloody cold.

“Just…just one more miracle, for me, Sherlock.” Tears welled in his eyes. He’d seen death before. He understood it. He’d seen death on the road to Erebor, he’d seen death in the army. He’d even seen people he’d personally known fall and never get up. This was not his first loss.

But this death had broken something inside of him. His heart felt fractured, a dull ache in his chest that would never go away. All he could hear was Sherlock’s voice on the phone, broken, broken, hitched sobs and tears that didn’t belong there. Trying to convince John he was a fake, a fraud, instead of the brilliant man John had come to know as his best friend.

The plea fell from his lips despite the sheer futility of it. “Please don’t be dead,” he choked out through quivering lips. He tasted salt and hung his head. “Please, just, one more miracle…”

When Sebastian pulled him away and into his arms, he went. When Philip and Kyle helped him into the car, he sat. When Gandalf spoke of a pub somewhere nearby, he agreed with the others.

Through it all, tears wouldn’t stop falling.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_Goodbye, Sherlock._

 

“You know, you could just go in there.”

Sebastian thought he did a magnificent job of ignoring the suggestion. The sigh he got for his trouble was heavier and more exasperated than he deserved. “Uncle,” Philip said, voice more aggravated, and Sebastian turned to pin him with a glare.

“No. He needs space. We’ve all been wrapping him up in a safety net today and he needs time alone.” John’s unseen departure from the group had proven that: they hadn’t even noticed he’d gone until the door clicking shut had given him away. Still the silent, small burglar.

“He wouldn’t mind if it were you, though,” Kyle insisted. “He’s in love with you, you big clod, remember?”

No, that Sebastian wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon. “He needs space,” he still insisted.

“He needs a friend,” Philip countered, though his tone was gentler than before. “Tell me, Uncle: how many times did Bilbo slip away on his own? In order to be alone?”

Just once. Just once had he slipped away to be alone, after the orc attack and the eagles and Thorin’s embrace. They’d all left him alone by a small river he’d wandered away to, but when Bofur had finally wandered down there to get orc blood out of his hat, he’d come back very concerned about their friend. It’d been enough that Thorin had gone down to see what was ailing the hobbit.

He’d found him shivering by the water, knees up to his chin, looking so lost and miserable that Thorin had almost turned around. But a snapping twig had given him away, and once Bilbo had pinned him with shimmering eyes, Thorin had asked him what was troubling him. From out of the words that had nearly tripped over themselves to get out of the hobbit’s mouth first, he’d realized one thing: Bilbo Baggins hadn’t really wanted to be alone. But he hadn’t known that the others would understand what he was feeling.

Gandalf’s words from the coffee shop flew through his mind. _“He was alone. Wounded. Hurting.”_

Fuck it all. “You two stay here,” he growled, pushing himself up out of his chair and heading for where John had gone.

“Trust me, we want nothing to do with what you two’ll get up to in there.”

Sebastian rewarded Kyle with a glare that would’ve killed a normal man. As it was, his ‘nephew’ merely held up his hands in surrender. It didn’t wipe the grin from his face or from Philip’s. Bastards, the both of them.

He supposed he should be grateful that they’d taken to it like they had. When he’d told them about John and how he felt, how he’d felt about Bilbo so long ago, they’d looked at him like he was crazy. “You’re just figuring it out?” Kyle had blurted out, and that had sort of been the end of that discussion.

Sebastian came up to the door, warring with himself. Should he leave John alone? Should he go in? In the end, he settled for rapping his knuckles on the door and carefully turning the knob. Wasn’t locked – that was a good sign. “John?” he called softly.

The light from the main room was enough to illuminate the lone figure sitting on the edge of the bed. Sebastian shut the door, leaving the room in complete darkness save for the moon that shone through the window. There was enough room to sit beside the other man, though, and John made no comment when he did so.

He felt as helpless as he had that night when he’d found Bilbo by the banks. John looked just as lost as he had ages before, but there was a weariness about him that Sebastian didn’t know how to soothe away. He looked broken, and the king within him demanded someone pay for the pain.

Unfortunately, it was hard to beat up a corpse. Especially one that was a corpse because he’d saved John’s life.

He pushed Thorin down and let the years of being Sebastian Moran flow over him. “The boys think we’re romping around,” he said.

John’s lips curved up, as if against the other man’s will. “I almost hate to disappoint them,” he said. His voice was rough, sounding shredded, as if he’d been wept without stopping for quite some time. Sebastian itched to hold him. He forced his hands to remain in his lap.

“I have to wonder about your nephews, but then, I always have,” John continued. He sounded hollow, too hollow.

“That makes two of us,” Sebastian said, and the chuckle he got had a little more life to it. Progress. “They’ve always been their own brand of undecipherable. They had their own language as babes, did you know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Fili could speak Westron just fine, as could Kili, but when they talked to each other, you couldn’t understand a thing they said. They were perfectly in tune with each other. Up to the day they died.” God, he couldn’t have said something more wrong if he’d tried. Trying to cheer John up, and instead he was bringing up more death.

A hand settled on his arm, causing him to look up. “They’re here now,” John said quietly. “I know…their deaths haunted me, and I wasn’t even there to see it. I can’t imagine how you had to feel, watching them die. Knowing there was…nothing you could do.”

It hit him like a ton of bricks. “There wasn’t anything you could do either, for Sherlock,” Sebastian said. John stiffened and Sebastian caught his hand before he could pull away. “You did everything. But in the end, if someone’s going to die, they’re going to die. And if someone wants to die, they’re going to die, John. You couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

“If I’d-“

“Saying anything different wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.”

John tore his hand away and stood. “You don’t know that. Christ, none of us know _anything_ ,” he said angrily, pacing back in forth in front of the window. Sebastian ached to reach out for him, but right now, John needed to do this. “If I’d said something different to Sherlock, maybe he’d still be walking and talking.”

“And maybe if you’d said something else he still would’ve fallen, but would’ve thought himself less loved,” Sebastian finally snapped. John looked stricken for half a moment, then fury slid into his eyes.

“Are you mocking me, ‘King Under the Mountain’? I know your idea of fixing things is smashing, not speaking, but words actually _can_ make a difference.”

They certainly could, and right now, they were slicing through Sebastian’s heart. “I’m not-“

“Does it make you feel better, to slash and hack and destroy the things in front of you? Does that make a bloody difference?” John panted, his breathing harsh in the silent room. The next minute, he threw a punch into the wall. It splintered under his weight, and even before Sebastian could move he threw another.

“Does this…help? Is this…worth more to…to you…than…words?“ His words were punctuated with a fist against the wall again and again, and Sebastian hurried to grab his arm before he could throw another punch. John sank back into him suddenly, not fighting him like he’d expected. Sebastian didn’t stagger back under the weight, but it was a close thing. John had all but gone limp in his arms, and it was almost more alarming than his rage earlier.

He was almost glad there wasn’t more light in the room: he didn’t really want to see how much damage John had done to his hand. “I will let you pour out your grief as you choose,” he murmured, and if there was a dwarven lilt to his voice, he wasn’t really surprised. Protecting Bilbo had been his priority, before the end. Even if it meant protecting him from himself. “But I will not let you come to harm.”

There was a choked breath, and then John fell apart. They were ugly sobs that sounded like he’d never catch his breath, and Sebastian understood this. This was grief. This was pain. This was watching someone you cared for, loved, fall in front of you. He’d watched Kili and Fili fall. That had been his punishment for his gold lust, one he’d selfishly been glad he hadn’t lived to endure.

Light crept into the room, and Sebastian glanced over at the door. It wasn’t Kyle and Philip at the door, but Kili and Fili, one head atop another, their worried gazes speaking volumes. Sebastian gave them a nod over John’s head, and they slowly closed the door again. He let his eyes drift shut, John’s heartbreaking sobs making him tighten his grip.

“Bilbo,” he murmured, eliciting a shudder from the being in his arms. “I’m so sorry.” Thorin had certainly used the smash and destroy technique more than his words in his lifetime, but John was right: in the end, it had been his words that had desolated the hobbit he’d called dear.

Another sniffle, and the voice that responded was so small it almost hurt. “I miss him,” Bilbo whispered. “I…he was my friend, my best friend, my only friend for so long and, and I couldn’t save him.” _Just like I couldn’t save you,_ hung in the air, unspoken but not truly silent.

“I can guarantee, little burglar, your words would not have reached me. The gold lust was too strong. I am only glad that I didn’t harm you.” More than he already had, but Thorin wasn’t going to go down that path. Bilbo had left his halls in one piece, for which he was grateful.

Bilbo pulled in a shaky inhale. “I would’ve tried,” he said, and Thorin pulled him all the closer. “I really would’ve, for you.”

“I know,” Thorin murmured. Oh, did he know.

Another sniffle and Bilbo finally pulled away. He wiped at his red, swollen eyes without thinking, then hissed when he encountered his battered hand. “Fuck that hurts,” he said, and it was John Watson who sat down on the bed, not Bilbo. Thorin disappeared as Sebastian reached for the light. Turned out, he’d been right: he hadn’t wanted to see John’s hand.

“You brutalized a wall: what did you expect?” Still, he was gentle as he turned John’s hand over to see the damage. Blood caked his hand, and still more sprung up from what were probably sprained fingers. There were flecks of paint and pieces of wood here and there, and with careful fingers he brushed and pulled the worst of it away. He’d need a first aid kit for the other pieces. John winced but said nothing.

“I’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom-“

“Sebastian, it’s fine.”

“-which I’ll be getting, sit tight.” He ignored the glare John leveled at his head and rose to get the kit. When he came back, John was back pacing again. He was cradling his injured hand, and refused to sit when Sebastian beckoned. “I will make you,” he warned.

“It’s fine.”

“John, sit.”

“I’m the bloody doctor, and I’m fine.”

Right, as his hand continued to bleed. Sebastian tossed the kit onto the bed, then stepped in front of John to halt his pacing. When John looked up, stubbornness set into every pore of his body, Sebastian didn’t hesitate. He caught John’s shoulders with both hands and nudged him towards the bed. He wasn’t expecting John to twist out of his hands, and instinct took hold. He grabbed John around the waist and pulled, turning to land them both onto the bed. He wound up on top of John, a breath away from John’s lips, and they both froze.

That was when, of course, Philip and Kyle came into the room, and both of them came to a sudden halt when they glimpsed them on the bed. “Um…we heard sharp pounding noises, then nothing,” Kyle said meekly, eyebrows raised. Sebastian could feel his face warming under their gazes.

“I told you we didn’t want to come in,” Philip said. He tossed a cheeky grin in their direction before hauling Kyle out of the room. The slamming of the door echoed in their absence.

If Sebastian’s face was burning, it was nothing compared to the inferno that seemed to have completely overtaken John. “You must really want it badly,” John managed, then stammered, “I-I mean, to do my hand. _Wrap_ my hand. Medically. Doing medical things, like doctor-patient. Oh god.” He let out a mortified groan and shut his eyes. “I don’t know what’s worse, my mouth or your nephews.”

Despite the embarrassing misunderstanding, Sebastian couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know. Your mouth is just fine, I can assure you.”

The deer in the headlights look he got for his comment was worth the comments he’d undoubtedly hear from his nephews later. John’s eyes narrowed into speculative slits, and before Sebastian could say anything else, he leaned up, their mouths nearly touching. It took everything Sebastian had not to close the gap. After a long moment of sharing breaths, John finally brushed his lips against Sebastian’s, as if afraid he was doing something forbidden. He did it again, the sweet tenderness sending a shudder down Sebastian’s spine. When John paused at the movement, Sebastian leaned in, his kiss more coaxing, teasing, asking for more. Despite being on top, he felt covered, wrapped up in John and nothing but John. John’s hands sliding over his arms seemed to indicate the same feelings.

It wasn’t until he felt something wet slide across his cheek that Sebastian remembered why he’d tackled John in the first place. “Hand,” he whispered in the breath between kisses.

“Hm?”

“Your hand, John.”

John stopped. “Right. Forgot.” His entire body went tense beneath Sebastian. “It’s fine, really.”

“Do you want to wrap it?” Maybe this was more of a professional pride thing. That didn’t sound like Bilbo at all, but maybe it was a John thing. He honestly didn’t know John all that well, on a personal basis. Learning, but not completely wise on everything that made up John Watson.

“What? No, it’s not…it’s fine, really.” He shook his head, looking anywhere else except at Sebastian. If Sebastian didn’t know any better, he would’ve said John looked-

For all the revelations he was having tonight, he should’ve felt the heat from the light bulbs over his head. He was _embarrassed_. Now _that_ was a very Bilbo reaction. “Sit up,” Sebastian said, reluctantly pulling himself away from the warm feeling of John beneath him. John looked even more regretful about letting him go and sat up with greater reluctance still. Sebastian took a seat beside him, popping open the kit. John let out a heavy sigh.

“It’s fine-“

“I’d feel a lot better if I could take care of you,” Sebastian admitted. In the face of John’s embarrassment, bordering on humiliation at this point more than likely, he could admit that much for him. “There’s not a lot else I can do for you right now, so…let me do this.”

Because there wasn’t anything he could do for the grief John was going through. He could only be there, stand by his side like he had in the cemetery earlier that day.  
John said nothing for a long moment, then finally handed his damaged hand over. Sebastian let it rest in his grasp and began pulling out what he needed from the kit. The room went quiet as Sebastian worked. Only a few times did he actually need the tweezers to pull out pieces of wood and a few flecks of paint that refused to budge.

It wasn’t until he was nearly done that John finally spoke. “I shouldn’t have done it,” he said, his voice nothing more than a murmur. “You’ll have to patch the wall now. I’m sorry.”

So it had been embarrassment. “I could give a rat’s arse about the wall. More concerned about you.”

John shrugged, face downcast. “It’ll heal. You’re a good medic.”

Sebastian let his lips turn up in a grin. He bent down and ever so carefully pressed his lips to John’s hand. Even as John began to smile, the door swung open again, and Kyle leaned his head in. “Gandalf’s back, he wanted to…oh god, roleplaying already?”

“Kili, if you don’t start knocking I _will_ make you regret it,” Sebastian growled. Kyle backed out of the room, shutting the door silently.

A sound made Sebastian turn back from the door. John’s face was red, but he appeared to be holding back his laughter. “Were they this bad and I’m just not remembering it?” he asked when he had a semblance of control back.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Inquisitive idiots with a penchant for mischief? Yes.”

John did let out a snort at that. “That’s not nice: they _are_ your nephews, you know.”

“Which is why I, above everyone else, can be honest about it.”

It was a nice thing to watch John chuckle, lighter than he had been since Sherlock had died. Grief took many different forms, but if he could remind John that there were things worth smiling over, then maybe, maybe he’d be okay. And there was nothing more important than making John, _Bilbo_ , happy. Because no matter what John told him, no matter how many times he was forgiven, he would always be Thorin who hadn’t been able to take back his cruelty until it was far too late. He would never be able to make up for the lifetimes Bilbo had wandered alone, doubting himself, filled with self-loathing and haunted by what-ifs.

Bilbo may have forgiven him, but he’d never forgive himself. Ever.

“Thank you.”

Sebastian looked up. John was no longer smiling, but he still seemed more tranquil than he had been earlier. “For being here. I…I think I’d go mad, if not for you.” His eyes glistened briefly, but a few brief blinks later, it was gone.

Ages and ages later, and the kindness of this beautiful being still pulled at something in his chest. He tried to think of something to say, and came up short. He leaned forward instead, resting his forehead against John’s. His nose brushed against the other man’s, and he remembered a night by the fire, when everyone else had gone to sleep, and Bilbo had asked about the greeting Dwalin and Balin shared. Thorin had tried to explain by – carefully, _very_ carefully – demonstrating to Bilbo how familial it was. When he’d leaned against Bilbo, nearly terrified of breaking the smaller being in his arms, he’d been surprised by the strength he’d found pressing back at him instead. He’d also been surprised by the near intimacy of the act. The feeling certainly hadn’t been familial. He’d pulled away swiftly, as had Bilbo, as if they’d both realized the same thing at the same time.

Now, Sebastian let himself linger, thumb brushing gently over John’s bandaged hand. John let out a soft sigh, one Sebastian greedily breathed in. _Thank YOU for giving me another chance, for being so torn up about how we parted because it means you cared, that I mattered._ It was a selfish thought, but with John seated in front of him, and the memory of that night hanging so heavily that Sebastian thought he’d see curly hair if he looked up, he thought he could be a little selfish.

Three short raps on the door broke the spell. John let another sigh, this one heavier than the one before. “Tell them to sod off,” he murmured, and Sebastian chuckled.

“Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield, I have a need to speak to the both of you immediately. If you do not come out, I will be forced to send Fili and Kili in after you.”

Oh, sure, torture them. “And I thought Gandalf liked us,” Sebastian muttered, and John snorted.

“He does. He knocked.”

Point. “He went to get dinner, supposedly,” Sebastian offered.

“I doubt that’s what he wants. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to not keep a wizard waiting. It typically doesn’t end well.”

No, wizards didn’t wait well. That, he could attest to. “C’mon,” Sebastian said, though he could hear the petulance in his own voice. Dammit.

John said nothing, but he grinned as he turned off the light. The moon’s light wasn’t enough to see if he kept smiling as they headed for the door.

He didn’t need to. John’s hand sliding into his was all he needed to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your patience has been amazing, and will thus be rewarded with more faster updates, I assure you. It's hard to write when you're under narcotics. Yay having all four wisdom teeth out at once!
> 
> /sarcasm
> 
> I was able to get my newest story up last night, and reviewed/edited this chapter for your happy reading. Thanks for bearing with me! If you'll excuse me, I need to go take more pain meds...

Gandalf looked like he had a case of the jitters. Philip wasn’t certain he’d ever seen the wizard look so… _unsettled_. It didn’t lead to a comfortable environment. When Sebastian and John came out of the room, the smiles on their faces disappeared in half a second of surveying the room. “What’s going on?” Sebastian demanded. Well, _Thorin_ demanded, because there was no way that commanding growl belonged to anyone except his uncle.

Gandalf sighed. “I’ve brought supper-“

“I think eating can wait until whatever’s got your face that way resolves itself,” John said. Philip would’ve said it a very un-Bilbo thing to say and do, but he remembered the hobbit better than that. Seemed they were all going to revert to their old age selves whenever the wizard turned up.

“You may indeed have a point,” Gandalf agreed. “I do not come with glad tidings.”

“No shit,” Kyle muttered. Despite the obvious seriousness of the situation, Philip couldn’t help but grin. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t related to Kili in this life: somehow, fate had contrived to bring them together anyway.

He remembered the day they’d met: in nursery, and Philip had been too old for it, obviously, but his mother had been the nursery teacher, so he’d hung out in her room after school instead of with the older kids. When one of the kids had picked on the littlest one there with the long, curly dark hair, he hadn’t even thought about it: he’d set down the law and defended the kid. After that, little Kyle had been attached to Philip’s hip. And for some reason that no one had ever figured out, Philip hadn’t minded. In fact, he’d been just as attached, and when Kyle had joined him in primary the next year, they’d been inseparable.  
The weird memories of a life where he’d been Kyle’s brother from a world out of Tolkien’s books had only made sense when Gandalf had caught their attention from across a street. After that, well, nothing had honestly changed. He’d always been pulled towards Kyle, to defend him, to take care of him, to call him best friend. He could read Kyle just as well as he’d been able to read Kili back in Middle-Earth.

Which was why, when Gandalf said, “I found the other sniper,” he knew the wizard had Kyle’s complete attention. When Gandalf added, “You’re all in grave danger,” he stepped over to Kyle and gripped his shoulder tightly. Kyle glanced up at him, and any fear in his eyes faded when he saw Philip. Philip gave him a quick grin. _We’ll be all right. We always are._

Kyle nodded. _I know._

“I’ll handle it,” Thorin said firmly. “Give me a name.”

Bilbo blinked. “Now, wait just a minute-“

“They’ve got your name, your face. No, I’ll handle it.”

“Thorin-“

“I said you _all_ are in grave danger,” Gandalf pointed out, before Bilbo could sputter another protest. Gandalf let his gaze wander over the group, and it was as if they were back in the wild, orcs braying in the distance. It wasn’t until Kili flinched under his grasp that he realized he was tightening his grip. “Sorry, Kee,” he murmured apologetically.

The smile he got was a fond one. “Shut up,” Kili said good-naturedly, and it was Fili who grinned back.

“What would you have us do, then?” Thorin asked. “I won’t let harm come to those I hold dearest. Not while I draw breath.” The pain in his uncle’s eyes, that Fili would never be able to erase. Not completely. He wanted to say something, anything, to assure his uncle, but the right words wouldn’t come.

Bilbo stepped forward. “If you think we’re about to let you go off and get yourself killed trying to keep us safe, Thorin Oakenshield, you’re more dipped in the head than I thought.” His harsh words were softened by his hand sliding back into Thorin’s, like it had always been that way. Given the way his uncle and Bilbo had danced around each other for so long in Middle-Earth, Fili figured it was a fitting analogy. 

Thorin turned to level a glare at him, but Bilbo stood firm. “We’re not letting you go off on your own,” he insisted. “We’re safer together, aren’t we?”

“It may be more than Bilbo and your nephews that needs protecting,” Gandalf said, cutting off whatever his uncle had been about to argue. “The other sniper is Azog.”

The apartment went deathly silent. Kili inhaled sharply, and this time didn’t protest when Fili gripped at his shoulder even harder than he had before. His uncle had gone completely white in the face, and Bilbo leaned into him, eyes wide. “Azog?” Thorin breathed. “You’re certain?”

Gandalf nodded. “My sources are very clear that Azog was the one behind any possible shootings on Mrs. Hudson and, subsequently, John. Moriarty knew how to kill two birds with one stone, though I doubt he knew just who he was sending after you both, Bilbo.”

If anything, Thorin’s face went even paler. “He was there when…”

“I suppose I have you to thank for saving my life, again,” Bilbo said, aiming for light-hearted and falling short. “If you hadn’t been there, I would’ve gone inside to see Mrs. Hudson and-“

“Please, don’t,” Thorin choked out, shutting his eyes tightly. Bilbo bit his lip apologetically and squeezed his hand. 

“What happened?” Fili asked. “Uncle, you were there?”

His uncle didn’t answer him, and at last Bilbo spoke. “He…he knew Moriarty had snipers on us all, and I’d heard that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, so I raced back to 221B.” Bilbo took a deep breath in. “He met me outside before I even had a chance to go in. Said she was fine, and I realized I’d left…that I’d left Sherlock alone. Exactly what Moriarty wanted.” His gaze lost focus, staring at nothing but seeing something all the same, and not for the first time did Fili feel something ache in his heart for the former hobbit, for his friend. He’d lost so much of his innocence on the road to Erebor, and it seemed the world was determined to strip from him what little he’d kept. He could imagine losing a best friend. He could even imagine watching them fall. He’d done those, and it made him turn to Kili, to watch him breathe in and out.

He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to watch them take their own life, though. If Kili had ever done that, Fili would’ve followed right behind him. He couldn’t have lived without his brother.

When he tore his eyes from Kili, his uncle no longer looked pale. Instead, he had a gentle arm around Bilbo, a hand resting on his shoulder. It was enough to pull Bilbo from his haunted gaze, and he flashed Thorin a quick, thankful smile. “It was your uncle that followed me to St. Bartholomew’s and somehow managed to get me out after Sherlock…well.” He cleared his throat, and he looked so unsteady that Fili wanted to go over and prop him up. If the way Kili’s legs tensed to rise, he seemed to feel the same.

“So Azog had his gun on you both, then,” Kili surmised. Gandalf nodded.

The largest question that hadn’t been asked hung in the air, and Fili frowned. “Does he remember? About Uncle, about us, about Bilbo?” The line of Durin had always been a contention point for the Pale Orc, but he had to hold a grudge against a small hobbit who’d stepped between him and Uncle that night amongst burning trees.

All eyes swiftly turned to Gandalf, whose grim face told them everything they needed to know. “Fuck,” Fili said succinctly, and just like that, they were back in Sebastian’s apartment, Middle-Earth fading away.

“Do you know his real name?” John asked. He remained where he stood, his hand still in Sebastian’s. “Not his Middle-Earth name, but his name here, now?”

“No,” Gandalf said, shaking his head. “I doubt you’d recognize him by his features now, either. At least, I can only assume he’s no longer a tall, scarred orc.”

Wait a minute. “You don’t know what he bloody well looks like?” Kili burst out before Fili had a chance to. “Gandalf!”

“What I have are highly classified documents about a man who speaks an odd language no one understands and has referred to himself as a Pale Harbinger of Doom. Other associates have known him as Asok, though his accent was so heavy that was simply their best guess.” He turned to Sebastian and John, mouth pursed. “He typically works on his own, so the fact that he willingly worked with Moriarty speaks of one reasoning and one alone.”

To get to Sebastian and John. “Did he know about Uncle working for Moriarty?” Fili asked.

Gandalf shrugged. “Of this, I do not know.”

“So he could’ve been only after…oh, god,” John said, as if just putting it together. “He’s after _me_.”

“Why would he be after John?”

“Because Bilbo stood up to him and kept him from taking me,” Sebastian said grimly, confirming Philip's hunch. “I’m going to put a bullet in his goddamn brain.”

“Now you wait just a moment-”

“I'm not going to let him start taking pot shots at you, John! If I hadn't been there that day-”

“You think he's not going to come for your head, either?” John asked incredulously, before barking out a laugh. “I'm not letting you out there with that lunatic running around.”

“Guys-”

“And I'm not letting him live a moment longer than I have to. One bullet's all I need and I can end this.”

“Uncle-”

“You think he doesn't need the same?!”

“Silence!” Gandalf thundered, cutting in where Philip hadn't been able to. The apartment got dark and Gandalf seemed to grow taller, just as he had in Bag End ages before. His cane almost glowed like a staff, and for one crazy moment, Philip could've sworn he was wearing white robes, not a gray suit.

Oh, yeah. Gandalf the White. He could be such a dunce sometime. Last time he'd read Tolkien, though, had been primary school.

The apartment was silent when Gandalf took a breath and resumed looking like an elderly chap in a nice suit with an odd bowler hat on his head. He hadn't even noticed the hat until just now. “I thought you wore a fedora,” Philip couldn't help but comment.

Gandalf shot him a glare that would've shut most other people up. Philip wasn't like other people. “I wear what I wish, and that is not the concern at the moment. What you all must do is stay put until I know more.”

“But-”

“The safe house may be a better place for you all right now. Leave tomorrow in the early morning, and I will ensure a safe passage to the safe house. There, I will supply enough fire power to keep you safe under any tactical fight.”

Sebastian looked like he was going to explode. John sighed. “Why can't we stay here?” he asked wearily, and Philip was pretty certain he knew why, and was just asking for the sake of playing the straight man.

Straight man. He smirked despite himself. “What?” Kyle whispered.

“Straight man,” he said without bothering to explain the rest of it. Just like he thought he would, Kyle got it and snickered. John sent them an exasperated look that Philip remembered all too well.

Worth it.

“Because the windows are not reinforced, and the height of the building puts you at greater risk from bombs on the first floor and snipers from on high. No, Sebastian was right to take you to the safe house the other day. I would have you all stay there, until I can sort out more information for you.” Gandalf gave Sebastian a sympathetic gaze. “I am not denying you the right to protect those you love, I am attempting to gather more information to keep _you_ safer, Thorin. I would not cross a hobbit; they can be very dangerous.”

“You'd best believe it,” John said, letting a smile play at his lips. “We're vicious creatures when we're not allowed tea time. Quite cross indeed.”

Despite his frustration, Sebastian snorted a laugh. Exactly what John wanted. “Tea cures everything, you know,” John added.

“Mm, I could use a tea,” Kyle moaned.

“Yeah, with a splash of brandy,” Philip muttered. They were all going to need it if they were going to be stuck with his uncle when he was this annoyed.

Gandalf nodded with a satisfied smile. “Right, if that's all settled, I'd like to eat. Chinese doesn't taste the same if it's gone cold.”

“Chinese? Why couldn’t you get Indian?”

 

If someone were to ask him what his problem was, given the look on his face, John would've smartly replied, “Sebastian Moran.” That man...

“Uncle just wants to make sure we're safe,” Kyle said for the tenth time in a row.

John sighed, looking out the window of the car. Gandalf had told them to leave early in the morning, before the city truly woke up, for the safe house. Sebastian had agreed, then had promptly told them they'd be taking one of his cars, and he'd follow on the bike. “If trouble happens, I can slide where I need to in order to protect you all,” he'd explained when John had immediately disagreed. They'd argued.

Sebastian had won. “You'd have thought I'd be used to losing arguments to dark haired men taller than me now,” he muttered. “Why I bother, I don't know.”

Philip grinned. “Can't fault Uncle, you know. He's just got you back. We were a bonus, but you, you he fought to get back.”

John blinked. “That's not fair to him. He loves you both-”

“I didn't mean it like that,” Philip said apologetically, taking a left onto the next street. “I swear. But you were the first one he found. We're family, sure, and he'd die to protect us, I know it. He's _in love_ you. Couldn't live without you. It's just...different, that's all. You're the most vulnerable, in his head. We were fighting dwarves in an age past. You were a hobbit.”

“I'm a soldier now, or was,” John pointed out. “I'm a fighting man in this age.”

“You're still his Bilbo,” Kyle said from up front. He swiveled in his seat and tossed a grin back to John. “He's just going to be protective of you. Anything happened to you, it'd break his heart. Watching you hurt over Sherlock...he can't stand it. Because there's nothing he can do.”

John swallowed. “That's not true,” he said softly. Sebastian's being there was helping in ways he couldn't describe. It hurt to think of Sherlock, his friend now long gone. But Sebastian, Sebastian helped. He couldn't imagine going through this grief and pain without that infuriating man by his side. His wonderful, beautiful king.

The car exploded.

Glass crashed all around him as the car flipped onto his side before coming to rest on its top, the front of the car landing on the ground with a thud. John landed up against the ceiling and window, glass everywhere. Distantly there were screams around the street as people fled, and for a moment John was back in the desert, their army truck flipped, the injured they'd been transporting now dead. He swore he could hear the guns of the living soldiers pop pop popping around him, the situation almost surreal. His gun, where was his gun? He had to get out of the truck, into the sand-

“John!”

Two hands gripped him tight around the collar and pulled him through the glass. Kyle's cut and dirty face was the first thing he saw, wide eyes terrified above him. “You're hurt!” he said, voice barely above a whisper. So much for the warrior dwarf.

“M'fine,” John rasped. He shook himself, the memory of the end of his army career fading. They were on a paved London street, nowhere close to the sun and desert of a few years ago. People were screaming for help, not shouting out commands.

But the sound of the guns...

Wait.

“Get down!” he yelled as bullets peppered the car. John grabbed both Philip and Kyle and hauled them against the front of the car. The tire was close enough to offer protection of a sort. He reached into the back of his slacks and hauled his handgun out. It would be enough.

The assault stopped briefly, then began again. Ammo, reload. Someone had been waiting for them, then.

_Azog._

John wasn't waiting this time. Kyle and Philip were unarmed and this time, this time he would protect them. This time, he wasn't leaving the battle to the dwarves.

He swung up when there was another pause and fired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't decide what type of hat Gandalf should wear. They're all hilarious.
> 
> Also, I'm American. There's nothing more American than takeout Chinese, I swear. Attempting to adhere to British terms, apologies if I screw it up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the absence when I promised more regularly updated ficcage - complications from my wisdom teeth surgery sort of landed me in a serious amount of pain. But it's mostly been dealt with, and I'm back. You get an extra long chapter for your patience.
> 
> Thanks for all the amazing comments! They've been so much fun to read and reply to. :)

John got three shots off before another volley came, this time straight where they were at. He hunched down with Kyle and Philip, flinching when the tire above them blew. “How many bullets do you have?” Philip yelled above the cacophony.

“I-” Something behind them burst into flames, and they all ducked even closer to the ground. Christ, who knew when the car would blow? They were out in the open, nothing but the front end of the car to help them, and nowhere close to get to. There was nowhere that John could safely take them, and the first tendrils of panic began rising in his chest.

Another gun sounded off, these rounds more staccato than the ones drilled at them, and John whipped his head over. Sebastian stood near the back of the car, a large assault rifle hefted against the bottom of the vehicle, firing at the building across from them. He looked like an oak tree, firmly planted in the ground with no signs of moving. His arm and back muscles clenched underneath his shirt, finger tight on the trigger. He looked...stunning.

He also looked incredibly _furious_. John really didn't think it was an appropriate time to think he was hot, but the fury sort of added to it. God he was touched in the head.

The firepower had shifted Sebastian's way. John slowly crept up to peek over the top – well, bottom – of the vehicle. It was coming from the roof of the department store building in front of them, and it looked like a large machine gun, large enough to warrant a tripod, if the way the shooter was hiding was any indication. He couldn't see the face, but the bald skin from above the gun was enough for John.

It was Azog. 

His gun wouldn't be much use, but Sebastian was firing less rapidly now, more calculated, which either meant he'd fired a spread to take the heat off of them, or he was running out of ammo. Either way, John could give him a reprieve. He took careful aim and fired two more shots at the top of the building. The first hit brick. The second made the attack stop for a brief moment. John grinned. _Gotcha, you son of a bitch._

“Get down!” Sebastian yelled, eyes more than a little frantic. He reloaded – had nearly been out of ammo, then – and began his assault once more. “When I say move-”

“Where are we supposed to go?” Philip asked, gesturing to the wide area between them and anything else. In fact, most of everywhere else was pretty much useless, too, with a weapon of that caliber bearing down on them. Stone would protect them...for a while. Unfortunately, the car wouldn't last much longer.

An explosion from the car made John jump back out of sheer instinct, the flames hot and cruel and too much like the desert sun. By the time he'd recovered and aimed again, already shifting his momentum to get back to a safer spot, the gun from on high had gone off again.

Fire spread through his shoulder, the suddenness of it pushing the air from his lungs. Or was that because his lung had been pierced? He couldn't breathe. Somehow, he managed to hang onto his gun as he hit his knees, the world around him growing hazy.

Someone was calling his name. Hands were pulling him in, and the pain rose to a crescendo. Everything grayed out. From a distance, the guns sounded like cannonballs going off, deep and in slow motion. A dirty and frightened face was in front of his again. Kyle.

Suddenly he could breathe, and he almost wished he couldn't. Sounds were loud in his ears, and the pain in his shoulder spread through his body. He wanted to run from it, wanted to scream and pound the ground and be anywhere else except with this burning fire that was consuming him. He could feel the slick, warm, wrong sliding of blood down his side, and for a minute, he was afraid he was going to be sick. 

“John!” Kyle all but screamed, fingers tight in his shirt. “God, just...just hang on. Oh god.”

His hand felt empty, he realized. Then he saw Philip with his handgun, firing the last of his bullets towards the building. He actually looked like a decent shot. _Wonder how Kyle would do with it, crack shot that he is,_ he thought for a minute, and then he felt himself sinking.

He blinked and there were flashing lights all around him. The gunfire had been replaced by loud voices and medics, and somewhere, he swore he could even hear Greg. Crime scene. _God, not a homicide, the boys, Thorin-_

“I'm here,” said a voice to his right. There he was, his strong oaken king, who didn't look particularly strong anymore. He looked frail, like he would shake apart.

He looked terrified.

“Moving him in three,” someone said, and his hand wasn't empty anymore. Sebastian's hand was in his, and he managed to weakly grip it. _Kyle, Philip,_ he wanted to ask, but his voice failed him, and he couldn't breathe again. Where was Azog?

He closed his eyes, and the last thing he felt was Sebastian's hand being pulled from his, leaving him empty handed and alone.

 

“Sebastian...?”

“Yes?” Sebastian said as he rose, ignoring the nurse's subtle request for a last name. He wasn't certain Moran was a squeaky clean name to use, and it was unfortunately the only ID he had on him.

And none of it mattered, his mind was stalling because the nurse didn't look relieved, he looked very grim. _God, John, BilboBilboBilbo no._

“We've managed to stabilize him. He lost a lot of blood, and we’re worried about his lung.”

_Kyle screaming as the first sirens start, blood all over his nephew's hands, John's sweater, the concrete, his own hands as he attempts to help Kyle stop the blood flow_

“The medical team got him here quick enough, but we're not certain if he'll wake up anytime soon.”

_John's eyes opening as the medics finally get there, beautiful eyes clouded with pain and confusion, mumbling for Thorin and he's there, holding on until the medics separate them briefly to load him into the ambulance. He's unconscious when Sebastian gets inside, fingers cold when he retakes John's hand_

“You're welcome to sit with him, you and your sons.”

Sebastian didn't correct him. “Thank you,” he said. “I'll, um...”

The nurse seemed to understand, at least, and left him with brief directions to John's room. Then he was gone, leaving Sebastian to his thoughts.

God dammit. He needed to get in there – they didn't let anyone in to see someone unless it was critical. The fact that they hadn't even asked Sebastian's relationship with John, family or friend, spoke volumes of how John was. He needed to get in there, to see John with his own two eyes.

He couldn't.

He was terrified.

Somewhere behind those double doors was a room with an unconscious John, and if Sebastian saw him, bloody and barely breathing, he was afraid he'd lose what little sanity he was clinging to.

He still felt like he had John's blood on his hands. He'd scrubbed until his hands were raw, but he could see the deep red blood on his hands. “God,” he breathed, and didn't know whether it was an exclamation or a prayer.

Footsteps alerted him and he snapped his head up, tense and ready. It was a cop, he realized. He knew this one from somewhere. How did he know him?

“Sebastian...?”

Greg. Greg Lestrade. “You must be Greg,” he said, trying the name out.

He got a nod and shoulders that dropped slightly. “He awake, then?”

“No, just...he's talked about you,” he said, and the excuse sounded lame to his own ears. Given that John's blood was still drying on his shirt, he hoped he'd come out sounding more in shock than anything else. He needed a new shirt.

Greg nodded, and his words were gentler than before. “Haven't been in touch with John much since...since Sherlock. Not really. I mean, I took his statement, saw him at the funeral, he called to make certain Mrs. Hudson was all right after Sherlock died, but. That was it. This wasn't really the way I wanted to meet up with him again.”

“They've said anyone could visit him,” Sebastian offered, but Greg winced. Apparently he knew what that meant, too.

“No. I just wanted to ensure he was all right. I've got to get back to the case. It's not really my case, even if John's my friend, but I've sort of twisted it, tying it back to Sherlock and Moriarty. And that is my division. If I'm right about all this, whoever shot up John was part of that whole Moriarty mess. That means John comes under my protection.”

Protection. Sebastian hadn't even thought about it. It wasn't like he himself was going anywhere, but he supposed police being there would deter those who wanted to come shooting John in the middle of a hospital ward. “That'll be, yeah. Thanks.”

Greg nodded. “Going to keep him safe. Like I couldn’t with Sherlock,” he said after a moment. He looked suddenly older than he had a minute before. As prickly as Sherlock could be, he'd been friends with Lestrade, that much was obvious. As much a friend as you could be with Sherlock, at any rate. Only John seemed to have delved beneath the scales to get to the real heart of the man Sherlock could be.

John. Sebastian's heart twisted in his chest. Suddenly he needed to be in the room, to see John with his own two eyes. “I need to-”

“Yeah, no problem,” Greg said easily. “If he wakes up, tell him I'll be by with my best men.”

“Thank you.”

Greg just tipped his head and walked away. Sebastian took in a few breaths before heading into the hall.

There were a few sounds, footsteps as nurses moved around, the low murmur of voices, the hum of machines. Beyond that, it was just him and his pounding heart as he moved through the building. Then he was at the right door, his mind somehow remembering the directions the nurse had given him, and he was inside.

He wished he could say that it was the low light that made it harder to see the good signs, like the rising lungs, the steady heart monitor. But the light was just fine. All Sebastian could see was the small, pale form that John made in the hospital bed.

“John,” he whispered brokenly. The right shoulder was wrapped, a small amount of blood showing through. There were cuts and bruises on his face, more obvious against the stark white skin. The small tube snaking between his lips made Sebastian ill. Life support. They didn’t trust John’s own lungs to sustain him. The other wires all over were frightening enough, but it was that one damned tube that seemed to taunt him. _I’m all that’s keeping him breathing. And you couldn’t do anything about it._

He’d tried. God knows he’d tried. But in a split second, John had been exposed and the shot had been too meticulous, too perfect. He should’ve been lucky the machine gun hadn’t had the best accuracy, for whatever reason. Any higher and it would’ve made butter out of John’s head.

He shuddered and sank into a nearby chair. The heart monitor kept beeping. John’s eyelids didn’t so much as flutter.

If Gandalf hadn’t rounded up the cavalry, Sebastian wasn’t certain what would’ve happened. He’d arrived at just the last moment – as usual – bringing the saving firepower of Greg Lestrade and a huge police taskforce. There’d also been an ambulance, and they’d swiftly taken John away. It was only Gandalf’s insistence and a quick flash of an ID card that had allowed Sebastian in with John at all. It only made him wonder what the hell type of credentials Gandalf even had. Or what his name was, now, in this modern age. He’d never asked.

He had a feeling he wouldn’t be finding out soon. Gandalf kept secrets like some people kept pets. His eyes drifted back over John’s still form, and they landed on the hand closest to him. There were IVs taped into the hand, and the skin looked nearly as white as the sheets. He looked dead.

“Bilbo is quite fine, Thorin. He will heal.”

“Where were you?” Sebastian asked without turning around.

“Speaking with my associates. We’re delving into Azog’s sudden disappearance from the rooftop.”

Of course he’d disappeared. “So he’s in the wind.”

Gandalf let out a sigh. “Thorin, I am doing-“

“It’s Sebastian,” he said, and there was the anger he’d been trying to hold back on, that wasn’t really for Gandalf but the wizard was right the fuck there. He spun around in his seat, glaring at him. “This isn’t Middle-Earth. Those were fucking bullets, _rounds_ , hammering into John-“ and he swallowed back the sudden rise of emotions, turning it swiftly into fury. “And where were you? Getting, what, the coppers? The ambulance, that arrived nearly too late to take John in? If they’d been five minutes later he’d be _dead_.”

Gandalf stood silently, and his anger faded away. Gandalf looked old, the oldest he’d ever been, and Sebastian could feel guilt creeping up to compete with his fear. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. 

A firm hand fell on his shoulder and stayed there for a long moment. “You have every right to fear,” Gandalf said quietly. “You love him. You’ve only just found him again, and now your entire world is attempting to crumble around your ears. If directing your anger at me helps in any small way, then I will bear it, and with honor. For I know who it is you are truly angry with, and I will find him, Thorin. I will find him for you.”

The wizard’s sincerity only made him feel worse. “You didn’t deserve-“

“My dear Thorin,” Gandalf said, and when Thorin finally looked up, the older man was smiling. “That’s what friends do.”

Sebastian hadn’t cried in a long time, but between Gandalf’s sincerity and John’s still body before him, it could possibly prove to be too much. His eyes burned, and he shut them tightly. Later. Not now. Not when John’s life was still on the line.

“Where are Philip and Kyle?” he asked roughly, when he thought he could speak again.

“Your nephews are just outside, safe, waiting for my signal to come in. They wanted to leave you alone with Bilbo for a bit, but they are also eager to see him with their own eyes.”

“Thank you.” Whenever he doubted Gandalf, he was always reminded of just how Gandalf was really, truly there. Working everything from the background, he continued to save them in so many ways. “Just…thank you.”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. “Give Bilbo’s body a chance to heal, and it will. He will wake sooner than you think. His spirit has gone nowhere, and for that reason, I am not concerned.” He tapped the door with his cane twice, and within seconds Philip and Kyle were stepping in. Kyle’s eyes found John first, and his face paled.

“He’ll be all right,” Sebastian said without thinking, and Kyle glanced at him, almost desperately. In the face of his nephew’s pain, he could offer comfort, even though he’d refused it himself. “He just needs to rest.”

Philip nodded when Kyle didn’t reply, but it was hesitant at best. “You could speak to him,” Gandalf suggested. “Hold his hand. He’s still here, just sleeping and healing.”

Kyle was the first to come forward, giving John’s hand a very careful squeeze. “Thanks for saving my life,” he said, then backed away, as if unable to face John. Sebastian’s eyes began to burn again.

Philip took longer, resting his hand on John’s arm and gazing at the still man beneath him. “You’re a good shot,” he said, then offered a small grin. “Fucking awful at ducking, though. We’ll work on that.”

Kyle let out a snicker, despite his obvious discomfort, and even Sebastian’s lips turned up. Philip stepped back to let Gandalf through. The wizard laid a hand on John’s head, leaning down to whisper something in his ear. He stood back up straight and spoke out loud for everyone to hear. “Rest, my friend. You are well watched over.”

And if Sebastian had his way, he wouldn’t leave until John opened his eyes. “Join me, lads,” Gandalf said suddenly, ushering Philip and Kyle out. “I’ve a need for coffee that the shop downstairs might be able to satisfy.”

Sebastian shot him a grateful look, and Gandalf merely nodded. The wizard had seemed to understand his need for privacy. The three left, but it was a long time before Sebastian reached out and took John’s hand in his.

Cold. So cold. But there was a pulse thrumming through his wrist, and the heart monitor kept beating. Sebastian leaned in and placed a gentle kiss against the back of his hand.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t cover you, I’m sorry I couldn’t save Sherlock for you, I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you for all those lifetimes you spent alone, I’m sorry I cast you aside for such a stupid thing that left you so alone and making you believe that I didn’t love-“

His voice broke on the last words, and he swallowed them down like pieces of glass. “Please wake up. I need you. I’ve just found you again, I can’t lose you.”

There was no response. Sebastian leaned up and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead. “I’ll kill him,” he promised. “Swear to god, I’ll kill him. He will never touch you again.” Even if it took Sebastian’s life again, Azog would never touch John. The bullet rounds were as close as he was ever going to get.

He sat back in the chair, but his hand didn’t leave John’s.

 

It was only Greg’s appearance that caught his attention at long last. “My men are stationed in the hall,” Greg said, stepping into the room. He pulled up fast at the sight of John, eyes wide. “God, John…” It took a moment, but he managed to compose himself, and when he did, there was a steely flint in his eyes. “Got a lead or three on the guy.”

Sebastian slowly straightened in his chair. “Which you can’t tell me about,” he said.

“No, you’re not a consultant,” he said. “And your past, Sebastian Moran, will never let you be one, unfortunately.” He pursed his lips even as Sebastian tried to figure out how the hell the man had gotten his last name. He’d ducked the nurses well enough. “Damn shame, too. I’ve got a gut instinct that you’re a good man.”

Nothing left to do now; there was no way Greg was going to take a denial. “How’s that?”

“John trusts you.”

He might as well have punched Sebastian in the gut. “Doesn’t do that with a lot of people,” Greg continued with a short shrug. “But he obviously trusts you and cares about you. Any friend of John’s, you know. He’s a good man. Been hurt a lot.”

“Are you attempting to give me the, ‘Hurt him and I’ll come after you’ speech?” Sebastian asked, slightly amused.

Greg shrugged again, just a casual move, but his eyes were like daggers. “I don’t make idle threats. Hurt him in any way and you will find out I’m a dangerous man, Sebastian.”  
He had to admit, it made him admire the detective even more. John didn’t have a lot of people in his corner, and he was glad there was still someone willing to be there. “Done,” he said with a nod. “Threat accepted.”

“Good. How’s he doing?”

There was the unfortunate bit that Sebastian really didn’t want to think about. “He’s still deeply under. They had to transfuse, he’d lost so much blood, and he kept bleeding, wouldn’t clot right. They’ve got him on a breathing tube, to take the strain off his lungs, and he hasn’t responded to any stimuli yet.”

“Christ.”

Yeah, that about summed up Sebastian’s response, too. “So, lead or three,” he said, when Greg could do no more than gaze at John with pain in his eyes.  
Greg nodded. “Lead or three. We’re working on it. For now, John’s safe, and that’s the most important part.”

It was maddening, knowing that there was possibly an answer right in front of him, a way to help John, and no way to get it. Greg wouldn’t let it slip so easily, no matter how much he seemed to like Sebastian. Not even for John’s sake. “It is,” he agreed. “Thank you.”

“Of course. If there’s anything off, call me.” He handed a card over with his full contact information. “First ring, I’ll pick up.” Then he was gone, giving last minute orders to the two men he’d stationed outside. Authorized persons only: seemed John was getting the very special treatment.

“Some nurse is going to wonder if you’re a dignitary,” he said to John. “All this protection.” Bound to set tongues wagging. Bilbo had mentioned that phrase in regards to the hobbits of the Shire. “All of them gossips,” he’d said with a grin. “You dwarves may speak your mind bluntly, but you speak it loud enough for everyone to hear, at least, unlike the Sackville-Baggins that I truly wish I wasn’t related to.”

It had been a good day at Beorn’s home. The warmth of the sun, the garden that had been surprisingly beautiful to even a dwarf’s eyes, and the small, smiling hobbit who’d sat beside him, not afraid of his bark or bite. Not after they’d reconciled with Erebor in view.

He cut off the memory before he could dwell on how their story had ended. In front of him, John slept on, heart monitor and ventilator the only sounds.

A small commotion at the door made him jerk up, wishing he had a weapon on him, but it was only Gandalf. “Impertinent young busy-bodies,” he muttered, straightening his suit jacket. Sebastian relaxed back into the chair. “As if I wasn’t a high standing member of the government.”

“How high standing?” Sebastian asked, just because he could.

Gandalf ignored him magnificently. “I’ve heard a few rumors about Azog. Detective Lestrade knows of them, but they’re not going to do him any good. Azog moves where he wishes. And right now, with Bilbo out of the picture, he’ll move on to you, Kili, and Fili. You’re not safe.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Sebastian growled, because that was exactly how this was going to go, and no.

“In this instance, I need you to.”

“What good am I going to do?” he asked incredulously. “Gandalf, I will not leave him alone.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. Too late he realized how he’d left his statement wide open. “Kili will stay here with Bilbo. You will go with Fili and myself, and we will draw him out.”

Sebastian stared at him. “You really think John’s safest here,” he finally said.

“Bilbo and Kili are both better off here than out there,” Gandalf said. “I know you worry for your youngest sister-son. I could see it in your eyes earlier today, when they entered the room.”

The response _had_ worried him – his younger nephew had always been slightly more tender-hearted than Fili, but watching Kyle back away and stare at John with such…such fear had made Sebastian wonder about the battle so long ago. He’d watched them both fall, Fili and Kili both. He’d almost forgotten they’d seen the same thing, too.

“Leave Kili here with Bilbo to keep them both safe,” Gandalf said. “I’ve my own ways of guarding them. You, Fili and I will draw Azog out and be finished of this, once and for all. And get you a new shirt in the process.”

It was, perhaps, one of the hardest decisions he’d ever had to make. Finishing Azog off was everything he wanted. He wanted to watch the bastard die. He wanted his nephews safe, wanted _John_ safe, wanted them to live without fear of Azog darkening their minds. The only way he could do that was to handle Azog himself. And Azog would come for him. He knew that.

But it meant leaving John.

“Think on it, for a bit,” Gandalf said quietly, patting him on the shoulder. “Then come find me and let me know what you decide.” He shuffled out the door, huffing complaints at the men on duty outside. It was all a ruse and they both knew it, because they knew what Sebastian’s answer was going to be.

He stood and leaned over, ghosting a kiss on the tip of John’s nose. “I’ll be back,” he whispered. “And you’ll be safe. Just…just wake up.” He could finish Azog off and find that John had died, and this would all be for naught.

No, John would wake up. He refused to let the bleary, pain-filled gaze of that morning, right before the medics had taken him, be the last memory of John’s brilliant eyes he had. John’s hand had trembled in his, trying to cling to him before they’d been parted. He’d called out for him. _Thorin…_

He needed to be Thorin with Sebastian’s rifle expertise. He needed to be Sebastian with Thorin’s avenging rage. 

He needed to end this.

He stepped out into the hallway, Gandalf and his nephews waiting for him. “Kili, I need you here to watch over him,” he said, voice low and crackling. “Fili, you’re coming with me.”

“Uncle,” and when he looked back, it was Kili’s young, too young face, gazing back at him with worry. “Be careful. Fili.”

“You too,” Fili said. They gave each other a quick nod, then Kili stepped into the room. They turned and left swiftly, not speaking again until they were outside the hospital. Every step felt like torture, leaving his beautiful Bilbo, his _John_ , behind.

“How do we find him?” Fili asked. He looked as if he were spoiling for a fight as much as he was.

“Gandalf?”

“Back to your apartment. That’s step one. I’ll explain more on the way.”

With a nod Thorin inhaled the night air. “Then we make haste.” There was absolutely no time to lose.

_Bilbo, please stay. Don’t go where I can’t follow._

 

From the dark, cool eyes followed their departure. It was tempting: he could go inside where a treasured prize lay, or go after them. There would be an eventual two birds by one stone, and he’d have both, but the decision had to be swift as to which one went first.

And swiftly it was made. A moment later, the figure melted back into the black of the night, leaving the hospital grounds. For now, at least. Later, he’d return.

 

“So…Asok, this sniper, he’s a hired hit man?”

That didn’t fit the profile at all. “Are you certain?” Sebastian asked. He’d let Thorin’s rage die a bit: wouldn’t do to spook Gandalf’s driver. Philip still looked confused, probably for the same reason Sebastian was.

“Hit man may not be the best term,” Gandalf said. “He’s a hired gun when it pleases him. Most of the time, he works on his own. But if his target lines up with someone else’s, he’s not above ‘working’ for them in order to collect the paycheck.”

That sounded more like the orc Thorin had known. “And Moriarty’s hit had all the pretty things that Asok wanted,” Philip surmised. “John and Uncle.”

“I’m not certain that Azog knew about your uncle, but he certainly knew about Bilbo. And finding out that John Watson was the same hobbit who’d denied him your uncle’s head, and that he had a target on his head a string of zeroes long, well. It didn’t take long.”

It would’ve been a big price tag, if Moriarty had given the signal, too. Sebastian remembered. It made him sick. “And now he knows we’re all here. The line of Durin and the hobbit who defied him.”

Gandalf nodded grimly. “Bilbo won’t be his biggest target. Bilbo, he’ll feel, he can finish off at any time he chooses. But you out in the open, he won’t be able to resist that. Especially with my new-found knowledge.”

Sebastian frowned. “Which is?”

With a smile he pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. Sebastian tore it open, and Philip leaned over to peek.

Photos. Photos of an obviously tall, built, bald man with the whitest skin he’d ever seen. “Albino,” he realized with a start. “He’s an albino?”

Gandalf nodded but said nothing. Sebastian turned back to all the photos. “Where did you get these?”

“Near the wharf – I caught him quite by accident. The whole area is shipping. Perfect for someone who burns too easily in the sun. Perfect, too, for the weapons he’s shipping.”

“He’s a weapons dealer?” Philip asked.

That would’ve explained the machine gun very well. It wasn’t often you could get your hands on that sort of toy. “That means he’ll be even more armed and dangerous with god knows what,” Sebastian said. He passed through another few photos before he slowed, then turned back to one of them. “That’s my street,” he said at last.

Gandalf nodded. “And I’m certain he’s watching it. Whatever weapons you have, we’re going to need them for firepower. My sources tell me that he has a much bigger design going on here than just destroying the four of you. He will bring your world crashing down on you, Thorin. All those whom you hold dear, what you call a comfort, anything that belongs to you. And he has the firepower now with which to do it.”

His apartment, his safe house, everything of his. Kyle, Philip, John. Kili, Fili, Bilbo. Nothing was safe, then. “He’s found the apartment-“

“I can guarantee safety only for so long,” Gandalf warned. “Take what you hold dear and get out.”

He’d left two of those he held dear back at the hospital, and the third sat beside him with too much knowing in his eyes. “A magic trick,” Philip said. “Like making the rabbit vanish.”

“You need me to disappear,” Sebastian said numbly. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t leave John behind-

“No. Much the opposite: I need you to appear, and be obvious about it. I need Azog to think that he has the upper hand. This is a courtesy stop to get what you need from your flat. I’ll explain more about where he’s hiding after that. We can discuss options on how to pull our ‘magic trick’.”

The car rolled to a stop on Sebastian’s street. They were just a block away from the apartment. God, had it only been that morning that they’d left? “Everyone out,” Gandalf said. He stopped Philip from racing forward with his cane, gazing around the area.

“Anything?” when Gandalf said nothing.

Gandalf gave a swift nod. “No one. Get your things. Move.”

Sebastian took off at a dead run for the apartment. “We can take my car,” Philip said, hurrying to the small blue car parked in front of Sebastian’s building.

It took half a second longer than it should’ve for Sebastian to realize the trap they’d walked into. Azog knew where they were. With power behind him and weapons and _he knew where they were._ Studied them long enough to know where he lived, what he drove. What Philip drove.

“NO!” he screamed.

The explosion from the car blew the windows of the building. The other cars beside it went up in flames, gas popping and cracking. The fire sprang high into the night air, lighting the sky.

The scene was nothing more than charred rubble by the time the first sirens began to ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband said that I should've added that they all went down to a nice pub after this scene. They don't, but he thinks I should put that in there instead of what I did.
> 
> Um. More soon?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um...surprises, more surprises...
> 
> I'm...sorry?
> 
> *offers pillows to squeeze and tissues if necessary*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would've gotten this chapter up yesterday, except we kept losing power during the snow storm. Apologies for the delay.
> 
> And, um, this chapter. It's longish, if that helps.

Pain. Numb pain, but it was there, lurking in the corners, just waiting to take him by surprise. His hand, too, though he was grateful he hadn’t done enough damage to his fingers by pounding into the wall the other night. He’d still been able to handle the gun at least.

Gun. The car. Philip, Kyle. _Sebastian._

John slowly opened his eyes.

The pale interior of the room told him exactly where he was, if the cloying smell of antiseptic hadn’t. Still, he sat up, needing to know what was going on.

Or, well, tried to.

He choked and fell back against the sheets, pain blossoming through his right shoulder. God, that _hurt_. Something pulled at his lips, and something else was beeping madly in the background, and the world floated for a bit as swift voices spoke over him.

When the pain had lessened he opened his eyes once more. Sitting up could wait until later.

Only one person stood above him, and it was one of the faces he’d wanted to see. “Kili,” he murmured, the old age name bringing comfort.

Kili’s smile looked like it would split his face. “God, Bilbo, Fee’s right: you really need to duck better,” he burst out, and John would’ve laughed if it hadn’t hurt.

“That’s the gratitude I get for saving you? See if I do it again.”

Kili’s smile fell. “Please don’t,” he said, and he looked as if he’d cry now. “Don’t do it again. God, you just, there was so much blood, and-“

“Shh, I’m all right,” John tried to assure him. Then suddenly he had an armful of Kili, who was very carefully not leaning or touching his right shoulder. The cannula beneath his nose itched, but John ignored it in favor of holding Kili as best he could. When the younger man pulled back, his eyes were bright red. “Is everyone else…?”

“They’re all fine,” Kili said, sniffling and wiping the back of his nose with his jacket. “Philip went with Uncle and Gandalf to the apartment to get things. Uncle’s shirt is destroyed: he wouldn’t leave you.”

As much as the thought of not being alone warmed him, Sebastian wandering around with John’s blood soaked into his shirt made his chest tighten painfully. “When did they leave?” he asked.

The shrug he got was all Kyle. “Not that long ago. Maybe an hour or so. I could call, if you wanted.”

“No, no; the last thing I want is to distract them,” he said. Not with Azog still out there. They’d be back any time by now. “What did I miss out on?”

“Your detective friend stopped by. You’ve got personal guards,” Kyle said, grinning again at last. He nodded to the door, where two men stood like statues.

John blinked. The hell had Greg gotten control over the case? He’d have to ask later. “And…Azog?” he asked in a quieter tone.

Kyle pursed his lips. “Gone. Couldn’t find him.”

Dammit all. John let out a deep sigh that left him hissing and reaching for his right shoulder. “Aren’t the pain meds they gave you helping?” Kyle asked, concerned.

“Yeah, they’re all right, it’s just going to be sore for awhile,” he said with a small laugh. “Should be lucky I’m alive, I suppose.”

Kyle nodded absently, his eyes fixed on John’s shoulder. John reached out and took his hand. “I’m all right,” he said, but he doubted that was the real problem. No, there was something else going on. Back during the attack, Kyle had been frantic. Beyond manic, if John was being honest. “Kili?” he asked softly.

The young man shuddered, and John’s sinking suspicions took on a stronger hold. “Tell me,” he said.

Kili gulped down air. “Fili…Uncle had fallen, and we were defending him as best we could. Then Fili was hit and he, he tumbled. Blood everywhere. And he was fading and he wouldn’t wake up and, and I was running out of arrows and then…”

It was John who pulled him in now, holding him as tightly as he could with his left arm. They’d all died together, then. Thorin, then Fili, then Kili. Except he knew that Thorin had lived long enough to watch his sister-sons fall. But he hadn’t thought about Fili and Kili. He should’ve: god knew he had his own PTSD from the front lines and when he’d gotten shot, never mind the other fights he’d fought in through his lifetimes. But he hadn’t considered Philip and Kyle having it.

Then he’d gotten shot and nearly died, right in front of Kyle.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his heart wrenching. “Kili, I’m so damn sorry.”

Kili pulled back and shook his head so violently his wavy hair flew around his face. “No, don’t be sorry,” he said. “I should be. Blubbering over things past, things that weren’t your fault and they _weren’t_ ,” he insisted when John made to interrupt. “They weren’t. Your being there wouldn’t have saved us.”

Maybe he could’ve. Maybe his saying something different, doing something different, could’ve saved their lives. Maybe it could’ve been better.

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Sebastian’s whispered in his mind. _Don’t blame yourself for things you couldn’t control. We’re here now, and that’s what matters._

“Maybe I would’ve, maybe I wouldn’t have,” John said. “Fate’s tricky like that. But don’t be sorry, don’t _ever_ be sorry. You can blubber all over me anytime you want. I know what it’s like to…to watch your best friend fall. I know what it’s like to die, to be shot. You don’t apologize for that. Ever. You do it again and I’ll wallop you so hard you’ll see stars.”

Kili’s brokenness faded into Kyle’s warm smile. “Got it: won’t do it again. Certain you wallop hard.”

“Damn straight,” John said, and Kyle chuckled. The young man’s tears were drying, and frankly, that was all John gave a shit about. He’d have a talk with Philip later, too, draw Fili out, see what he remembered. Maybe, just maybe, his PTSD could actually help for once, instead of hinder. That would be a nice change.

“Bet you wallop Uncle hard, too,” Kyle said with a sly grin. “All that roleplaying.”

“There is NO walloping,” John said as firmly as he could, even though his cheeks were flaming red. “God, where the hell does your mind go? And there was no roleplaying! The only walloping your uncle gets is when he’s being stupid enough to wander off on his own.”

“A pity he did.”

John whipped his head over to the door, ignoring the painful pull of his shoulder. A tall, bald man stood in the door. His pale eyes seemed to peer straight into John’s soul, and the scar running down the side of his face left John absolutely no doubt who it was.

Azog.

The man, so tall that he nearly brushed the top of the door, sauntered in as if he owned the place. “I would have liked a more…fitting end, for the line of Durin. I did not expect him to fall as easily as he did,” he said, and John blamed the heavy accent for the reason he couldn’t comprehend the words. His mind absolutely refused to believe what he was being told.

“He’ll come back and slit your throat,” Kyle growled, standing between Azog and John. “You lie, orc scum.”

Azog chuckled deep in his throat. “You are still so young and easily cut down, little Durin’s son. I did not fear you and your kin in the life before, and I do not fear you now. There is not much one can do in this lifetime that makes for a honorific kill, worthy of praise,” he continued, eyes locked with John’s. “But a bomb in a pretty blue car does the job, at least.”

John couldn’t breathe. No. No no _no_. Azog came closer, and John desperately sought out the guards that had been against the door, but they were slumped oddly now, dead. Dead as Philip and Sebastian-

He was going to be sick.

“You _lie_ ,” Kyle said furiously, but the devastation in his voice only added to John’s pain. “You son of a bitch-“

The gun came out so fast John didn’t see it until it went off. Two, three times, and the silencer was still deafening in his ears as Kyle fell. “No-!” he gasped, reaching over the side of the bed to catch him, but Kyle was already on the floor. He didn’t move.

All John could do was stare at the still body. He immediately reached for the call button for help, any help, Kyle could maybe still be saved, but the gun against his temple stilled him. “Any nurse or doctor that comes through that door will meet with a short death,” Azog warned. “Still a painful death, though quick.”

John glared up at him, vision blurring with hot tears. “So do it,” he whispered vehemently. “Kill me. That’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?” That’s why he’d killed Sebastian and Philip. Gandalf maybe, too.

Oh god they were _dead_. All his fault, all of them, when all Azog had wanted was his head. He’d been no help at all again, and it was all his fault.

Azog gave a chortling laugh that echoed from the past age, and he could’ve sworn he saw wargs in the distance. “No, little one,” he said. “You will know pain first before I allow you to depart this life. If I am lucky, you will have another life later that I can claim, too. But first, pain.”

There was nothing he could do that would hurt more than what he’d already done. Three lives lost so swiftly, the love John had just found already gone. _Thorin-_

The gun coming down against his temple was almost a relief.

 

The car that swung up in front of the hospital had barely stopped before its passengers were flying out of it. They bypassed a startled receptionist and raced to the stairs instead of the elevator. “He’s not answering his phone,” Philip said as they hurried.

Sebastian ignored him for the time being. He didn’t want to know why Kyle wasn’t answering his phone. He didn’t want to know why the phone in John’s room was going ignored. He wanted to see John with his own two eyes and hold him and god please let Azog not have gotten there first.

When they finally burst through the hallway, the two guards were still standing at attention in front of the door. It was almost enough to make him slow down, except…

They weren’t standing at attention. They were propped against the door, as if sleeping. His heart lurched in his throat. No. _Please no._

He slid into the room and found his worst nightmare before him.

Wires and IVs hung everywhere, pulled without care. The heart monitor was letting out a muffled wail. The breathing tube had been dutifully put aside, done professionally at least. But the bed was empty, and blood lingered by the pillow and on the sheets.

And in front of him, on the floor, was Kyle.

“Kee!”

Philip burst past him, shoving him against the doorway. Sebastian could only stare as Philip keened and pulled his brother into his lap. “No, no, please,” and it was Fili who begged, lifting the lifeless body into his lap. “I need help!” he all but screamed to the hallway. “Someone, please!”

It had to have happened recently. The nurses would’ve come around, otherwise. Unless they were laid out on a floor somewhere, too. Fili was fingering the torn holes in his brother’s shirt with trembling hands, and Sebastian closed his eyes. Dead. And John was as good as.

Gandalf slowly stepped into the room. “Help him,” Fili begged. “Gandalf, please.”

To Sebastian’s utter shock, Gandalf began to smile. “You’d make a horrible doctor, Fili,” Gandalf said, then tapped his cane against Kyle’s chest.

Kyle surged up, gasping for air. Fili all but fell over, and Sebastian felt his legs try to give beneath him. “Kili!” Fili cried, wrapping his arms tight around his brother. “Oh god, Kee…”

Kyle was still panting, wincing in pain. “How?” Sebastian managed. Magic. Somehow, Gandalf still had magic.

Propped up on his elbows, with Fili supporting the rest of his weight, Kyle slowly pulled his torn shirt apart. A black vest with three dents in it was where Sebastian had expected a bloody chest to be. “A terrible doctor indeed, Fili. You didn’t check for a pulse,” Gandalf said to Fili, who looked the closest to crying Sebastian had seen in this lifetime. “It’s not quite mithril, but a bullet-proof vest can still be a magic all its own.”

Gandalf had said he’d protect Kyle. He’d been right. God, Sebastian didn’t know what he’d do without the wizard as a friend.

“M’all right, Fee,” Kyle said, his dwarven lilt somehow exactly what his brother needed. “Just, just bruised.” Then he shot up, staring at Sebastian with terror in his eyes. “Azog. Azog was here, he-“ Then he looked to the bed.

Sebastian shut his eyes. “Then it is as I feared,” Gandalf said quietly. From behind them, cries of surprise were heard as the nurses had apparently come and discovered the bodies of the guards. He ignored them. The only thing he had on his mind now was John.

_He took John. He took Bilbo, god, he took him-_

“He said you were dead.”

Sebastian opened his eyes at the pain in his nephew’s voice. It was Kili before him, tears shimmering in his eyes. “He said you were _dead_ ,” he rasped, and Fili wrapped his arms tight around him. “He said a car bomb, in Fee’s car. How…?”

How indeed.

 

_“NO!”_

_Philip froze, hand on the door. “Fili,” Gandalf barked, hurrying over. Sebastian couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe._

_“There’s a, a blinking light,” Philip breathed, eyes catching Sebastian’s over the hood of the car. His face crinkled into despair. “Uncle, I’m sorry-“_

_“Don’t you dare,” Sebastian growled. He shook his head fiercely. “Don’t you dare.”_

_“On the count of three, you’re both to run back to my car,” Gandalf said tersely. “Fili, on two, you let go of the handle. I’ll take it.”_

_Sebastian stared at him. “You’ll be blown to pieces!” Philip cried. “No!”_

_“One,” Gandalf counted, and goddamn the wizard._

_“Two,” and Philip let go of the handle. The car didn’t blow. Sebastian took in a shaky breath._

_“Three.”_

_Sebastian ran harder than he’d ever run before. He grabbed Philip’s arm and pulled him forward with him as they went._

_The explosion from the car blew the windows of the building. Sebastian ducked and covered Philip as best he could as they kept running until they were behind Gandalf’s car. Only then did he turn around. The fire had already sprung high into the night air, lighting the sky. Sebastian panted for breath, watching pieces of the car land everywhere._

_Footsteps made him peer through the smoke. When Gandalf came into view, only a little dirty, his cane tapping on the pavement, Sebastian wasn’t certain whether he would deck him or kiss him. “You bloody fool,” he cursed instead._

_Gandalf grinned. “I believe we’ve just solved our ‘flashy magic trick’ problem,” he said. “That’ll draw him out well enough, but now, now we have a different problem. He’ll think you’re both dead, if we can hurry out of here quick enough.”_

_That left…_

_“Kyle and John,” Philip breathed, and Sebastian all but shoved him into the car to get back to the hospital._

 

“We must hurry,” Gandalf said. Sebastian moved from the doorway at last, still feeling unsteady but strong enough to pull his nephews to their feet. They wrapped around him tightly, and he let himself be Thorin for a moment, flooded with the staggering relief that they were alive, they were _alive_ and he’d been allowed to keep his nephews.

Except this time, it would appear he’d have to lose Bilbo to keep them.

No. This time, _this time_ , he’d get to keep them all. This time, goddammit, he got to keep everyone he loved.

“What do we do now?” Sebastian asked him. “What the hell can we do?” He could call Greg, but he had no idea how fast the detective could mount up his men or what they’d even be able to do. Besides, it was _his_ lover on the line, and he damn well wanted it to be _his_ bullet that sank deep into Azog’s skull.

Oh god, John thought they were dead, had probably seen Azog shoot Kyle. He wouldn’t think help was coming at all. After everything Sebastian had done following Sherlock’s death, after telling John he’d be there forever, and now John thought they were dead.

Sebastian _really_ wanted to sink a bullet into Azog’s skull. After he tortured him first. 

“I will call up help from my end,” Gandalf assured him. “You cannot go back to the apartment. You still need a weapon.”

“The safe house,” Sebastian said, and Gandalf gave a quick nod.

“Then do so quickly. I will get you out of the hospital without prying eyes and questions.”

And somehow, he did. The hospital floor was abuzz with security and other personnel, and soon the sound of police sirens echoed from outside. But they weren’t stopped, and no one seemed to even look at them. They made their way out into the night, heads down, unnoticed by everyone. “Now what?” Kyle asked.

“Now you make your way to the safe house,” Gandalf said, and he had a taxi hailed in seconds. Now _that_ was definitely magic. “I will come when it’s time.”

Normally, Sebastian would’ve argued with the man, but now wasn’t the time. Now, now he needed to find John before Azog could do anything to him. Because if there was anything he remembered about orcs, they were only merciful in battle. If they had a prisoner, death didn’t come swiftly. No, if you were prisoner, you suffered torture. Death was a gift.

And Azog had definitely taken John prisoner.

The taxi flew down the streets. Sebastian didn’t care. Philip and Kyle were beside him, whispering quietly to themselves in a language he hadn’t heard since they were young dwarves. PTSD, he thought for a sudden moment. He’d had no time to sit down with them and talk to them about that final battle. And for a short moment tonight, they’d both thought the other dead again.

Fuck. He wanted Azog dead _now_. He wanted this nightmare over.

Then they were there at the safe house, and Sebastian held his sister-sons back as he approached the door. Everything was locked, nothing tampered with, and the windows appeared fine. He finally opened the door and looked inside.

Dark and unassuming. He stepped in and found the main lights, scanning the room quickly. Empty. He let out a sigh and his nephews quickly closed the door behind them.

“Upstairs, there’s clothes – Kili, find a new shirt.”

“For you _and_ me,” Kyle said, hurrying off. Sebastian remembered at the last moment that he still had John’s blood dried on his top and shuddered.

“Fili, there’s weapons in the closet, right by the bed. Pull out what you think you can handle.”

“Any of it, right now,” Philip growled. He ripped the door nearly off its hinges and began digging through the stock he found.

Sebastian himself headed for the fridge. Tucked behind the unit was a black case, which he quickly pulled out and examined. It wasn’t his main rifle, but it was good enough to do what needed to be done. He snapped it shut and stepped towards Philip, then froze.

“Uncle, I grabbed you…”

Philip whipped around as Kyle’s voice tapered off. No one moved at the sight of the figure leaning between the front window and the door. His eyes were bright and narrow, even in the minimal light. He didn’t move from his casual position, but his height was visible and daunting, even from across the room.

Sebastian just stared. It was impossible. “How did you get in?” he asked, feeling foolish when there were so many other questions to ask. Only Philip was close enough to a weapon to get one, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to use it in time.

Lips turned up into a smirk. “I have ways of getting in to anywhere that I want. You should know that by now, Thorin Oakenshield.”

It only took a moment to recover, and it was Thorin who growled out his response. “ _Smaug_.”

And Sherlock Holmes smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Sebastian try not to fight. John tries not to give in.
> 
> It's time for a daring rescue.
> 
> WARNING: slight torture reference. Nothing graphic or too gory; does mention blood and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have all been waiting so very patiently, and for that, I thank you. I have for your reward a very long chapter. Thanks for all the comments!
> 
> Also, WARNING: there is talk of blood and pain and a tiny bit of torture. Nothing violently graphic, just...Azog has John. There's going to be pain. I don't like graphic, icky scenes. So trust me when I say it's nothing like that.

The first thought that finally came to him was, _The dragon lives_. It nearly consumed him, the anger, the rush to finish him off with Orcrist. This dragon who had taken his home, who had killed his people, who had destroyed cities and brought ruin to all who knew him.

Then the next thought came. _Sherlock’s alive. He’s let John think all this time he was dead._

Sebastian won out over Thorin. It was the sniper who marched forward and, before anyone could so much as move, punched the detective. Holmes sank back against the wall under the blow, then stood up straight, fingering the split lip with intrigue. Sebastian tightened his fist again, but Sherlock spoke first.

“We don’t have time for you to engage me in a fist fight, which I assure you, I’d hold my own in.” He seemed unconcerned with Sebastian’s rage. “We have to find John, immediately.”

“You mean Bilbo,” Philip snapped. “The hobbit, remember?”

Sherlock’s eyes went distant for a moment. “I remember better than you, as you weren’t there,” he replied coolly. “He was the first to battle against me in something other than swords and axes. He intrigued me. So imagine my shock when, in a life ages later and a form vastly different from my first, I stumbled across the same little hobbit. Still the same, unassuming being, but he was…he was kind,” he said softly. “He didn’t look at me differently, he didn’t treat me as if I were some odd _monster_. He thought I was brilliant.”

“He thought you were a friend,” Sebastian said furiously. “Then you let him think you were _dead_ -“

“I had to!” Sherlock snapped. “You don’t understand, of course you don’t. Moriarty’s web was far too wide, too broad, broader than I’d ever thought and I had to do something. They had snipers on John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and you would know, wouldn’t you, _Moran_?”

Oh it shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but it felt as if he’d been stabbed. “I was protecting him,” he growled. “I was there when you left him heartbroken.”

“He was alive, and that was what mattered-“

“He _watched you die_! You have _no_ idea what you did to him!”

Sherlock stilled. “I know exactly what I did to him,” he said, his voice like gravel. “I saved his life. He’s at least alive, not dead with a bullet through his brain.”

His bluntness made Sebastian flinch. “Except now, if we don’t move swiftly, he’ll be in a more severe, physical pain,” Sherlock said, his tone going from terse to almost casually friendly. “Azog, the Defiler, the Pale Orc. Fascinating, all these reincarnations, it really is.”

“You’ve got it all pieced together, then,” Kyle asked. He carefully came down the stairs, shirts in hand.

“Pieced together? No wonder you dwarves needed help retaking Erebor,” Sherlock muttered. He stepped past Sebastian to pace across the floor, fingers interlocked and index fingers resting at his lips. Sebastian could feel his hand shaking with the need to punch him again. “But yes, to put it in simple terms, I’ve ‘pieced together’ the answer.”

“The answer?” Philip asked, frowning. “To…?”

Sherlock let out a sigh as if dealing with people under his intelligence was something he did every day. He probably did. “I know where Azog is, and I can guarantee it’s where he’s taken John. I also know, however, what else he plans to do.”

Sebastian swallowed. “To John,” he said. An emotion passed across Sherlock face so fast he almost thought he’d imagined it. Almost. Except now Sherlock was pacing in sharper turns, fingers clenched tight enough to make his knuckles white.

He was afraid. Afraid for John. And it should’ve made Sebastian feel better except it didn’t, it only made it worse, that a dragon was afraid about what Azog would do to John.

“Besides that. His plans for London.” He turned to Sebastian so swiftly the sniper almost backed up. “Do you remember that drug circle, back when you first met John?”

“More of a line,” he said, and Sherlock looked approving, maybe even amused.

“Agreed. However, what I didn’t realize was that it was more than a line, it _was_ a circle, except I couldn’t see the rest of it. I was so focused on Moriarty I almost didn’t see the circle for what it was: Asok of Hungary, setting up shop and entrenching himself into the darker, seedier parts of London.”

Wait. “Azog was behind the drug circle?” he asked.

“Didn’t you think it was odd that they kidnapped John? I certainly did. Why kidnap John?”

“To get to you.”

“On the surface, yes. But it occurred to me that these simpletons wouldn’t have thought of something like that. Think back to that day. Did they seem like the type to kidnap someone and hold them like bait?”

The answer came swiftly: no. They’d been eager to slice and dice John up, no brainier than the three trolls that Bilbo had outsmarted. Sherlock was right, there was no way they’d been the brains behind the drug ring, or had the idea to use John to lure Sherlock out. Now that Sherlock mentioned it, it was almost painfully obvious. It hadn’t mattered at the time: all he’d seen was John in trouble.

Sherlock nodded, as if knowing what Sebastian was thinking. “You threw a wrench into the works, showing up like you did. You stalled them, but you did more than that. You gave Azog more than he ever dreamed of.”

“Azog saw Uncle?” Philip asked, surprised.

“Of course he did!” Sherlock said irritably. “He saw Sebastian Moran and saw even further: he saw Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins in the same bloody room. The icing on the cake was that it was obvious you _knew_ , that you remembered being Thorin. John didn’t know right away-“

“He did,” Sebastian said, enjoying the pause Sherlock took. News to him, then. “He knew about me. Maybe not about you,” now that he thought about it. Maybe John hadn’t known about Sherlock being Smaug.

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Interesting,” he murmured. “John kept that very secret, that he remembered you. Good on you, John.” He shook himself. “No matter. Azog was running the drug circle and the weapons ring off the wharf besides, but why? What could he possibly want with those?”

Holmes obviously knew the answer; he was only asking as if to encourage input, Sebastian realized suddenly. And it wasn’t their responses he wanted. He wanted John’s response, was waiting for it, even if he didn’t know it. His chest tightened.

Kyle did his best anyway. “A higher goal,” he said. “Power. Azog always wanted power.”

“Hm. Not as dull as you look,” Sherlock said. Only he could make a compliment still sound like an insult. Kyle perked up at first, then frowned, as if coming to the same conclusion. “Azog wants power. I heard rumblings of it, even before I took Erebor. Azog the Defiler, Azog the Pale Orc, Azog the Orc Lord. _That_ was the title he craved.”

“He’s not an orc now,” Philip said. He still glared at Sherlock, but he’d stepped away from the closet with the weapons. “More’s the pity.”

“Indeed. It’d be easier to eat him, but unfortunately, I’ve neither claws nor flames. Well, not flames I can breathe with. Would make dealing with him a lot easier.”

Privately, Sebastian agreed. If anyone deserved roasting, it was Azog. “What power can he have, now?” he asked. “What, the crown?”

“Oh, he’s not that foolishly ambitious,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “No. Who traverses the hidden paths that he’s carved with all his smuggling?”

 _Smugglers_ , he wanted to say, and he knew how much sarcasm he could use to show his full derision, except he realized that the obvious answer, this time, was the right answer. “Criminals,” he said. “Smugglers, convicts.”

“Murderers,” Sherlock added darkly. “He’s calling an army.”

“Terrorists?” Kyle asked, face pale. “Is that his goal?”

“Maybe, in time. But right now, his goal isn’t there yet. He wants what I want, ironically enough: he wants the web destroyed. More than that, he wants to _own_ the web.”

Moriarty’s group. “Moriarty’s dead,” Sebastian said, before he narrowed his gaze. “Unless that was faked, too.”

Sherlock looked tempted to roll his eyes. “Please. Moriarty is dead, of that I can assure you. Moriarty might have spun a corner of the web, but he didn’t control it all. There were others, others he was wrapped around and held tight to. My intention is to find them all, as is Azog’s. His aim is power: he’ll control the group, if he wants to, and he’s got the power and drive to do it.”

“And what would you do with it?” Sebastian asked, trying to keep the snarl from his voice. He had a hard time trusting anything Sherlock said. These were all facts – these weren’t intents, these weren’t plans or promises.

Sherlock pinned him with those terrible eyes, and for a moment, he was back in Erebor, hurrying his grandfather out, watching those eyes before they buried themselves in the golden vaults. “I would destroy it,” Sherlock said, voice dark and deep. “I want them _gone_. I had a reputation, I had a flat, I had a mind no one doubted, I had…I had John.” His voice went almost gentle, pained. “I had Mrs. Hudson. I had a place to call my own. And in a matter of 24 hours, it was gone. Perhaps that’s my punishment.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Forced from my home the way I forced you from yours. We all get our due in the end, don’t we, Thorin Oakenshield?”

Sebastian bristled but said nothing. He’d been accused of a wrong-doing in the forces that he hadn’t done, and had been outcast for it. Banished, though they used the term ‘dishonorable discharge’ now. Karma had found him in the end, all right.

“We’re wasting time,” he snapped instead. “John’s out there in Azog’s hands-“

“And if you go running in there without any sort of thought, Azog will kill him in an instance,” Sherlock hissed. “You’ve proven to me that you have perhaps an intellect equal to John’s: think. Or you’ll get him killed and then, Thorin Oakenshield, you will deal with my flames again.”

“You want a truce,” Philip said incredulously.

Sherlock pinned him with a look. “We both want the same thing: John safely delivered from Azog’s hands. I was amusedly fond of him as a dragon, but he’s become a friend now, here, in this time, when I didn’t deserve one. I don’t have friends: I’ve just got one, and I won’t lose him. I can admit my faults: can you, Durin’s son?”

This wasn’t the time to hash out old fights, no matter how much Sebastian wanted to. “We’ll go with you,” he said. “We need to get to the wharf. That’s where he’ll be.”

“You can’t,” Sherlock said immediately, holding up his hands when the others began to protest. “Shut _up_ for _one_ moment.” He took a deep breath and settled himself. “If you go waltzing in there, even to rescue him, you’ll only anger Azog. He has to assume he has the upper hand, or John’s as good as dead.”

“You’ve got a plan,” Kyle said, but he didn’t sound happy about it. Sebastian was even less thrilled.

“Of course I do,” Sherlock said with an aggrieved sigh. “And don’t bother calling Lestrade, he’ll be of no help here. He’s the best the force has, but he’s still no match for Azog.”

Sebastian, who’d pulled out his phone, gave Sherlock as bright a smile as he could. “How about a wizard?” he asked, and dialed Gandalf’s number.

He had a feeling he knew exactly what Sherlock wanted to do, and he knew he wasn’t going to like it. But for John’s sake, he’d follow it. For John’s life, he’d do what needed to be done.

_Hang on, my little burglar. We’re coming._

 

Time passed in an odd haze. All he could see was the swinging light high above them, swaying and making him dizzy. He could smell the ocean, very close. The wharf: Gandalf had mentioned the wharf. John had been down to the wharfs before, with Sherlock. It was a nice stroll, somewhere he could take Sebastian perhaps.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Did you really think, little Halfling, that you could hide from _me_?”

John didn’t say a word. He hadn’t said a word since he’d come to, hanging from the rafters of the empty warehouse. His hands were tied above him, pulling on his shoulders, tearing through the stitches of his right shoulder. God it fucking hurt, but it was pain. He could handle physical pain. Just nerves, mind over matter. Focus on the mind.

But that meant his mind was free to roam, and it roamed all over his memories. Of the faces he’d lost, _again_. He’d waited lifetimes for a glimpse of a familiar face and then he’d lost them. He’d gained forgiveness and found a love he’d only hoped for and then he’d _lost them_. Kili, dead before his eyes. Fili and Thorin, blown up. Gandalf too, perhaps, his old friend, and his chest felt as if it would cave in.

“You took my prize from me, little hobbit. You were so brave to stand before me that night amongst the flames. But I am Azog the Defiler. You do not stand before me and live to tell the tale.”

A hand grasped his right shoulder and squeezed. _Hard_. John let out a choked gasp and felt fresh blood slide down his skin. Hot, searing pain shot through his shoulder, through his body, down to his stomach where he thought he’d be sick. It was almost enough to override his mental lock, and he fought to cling to consciousness.

When the pain faded away, and he could see clearly again, Azog was in front of him, chuckling. “Perhaps I should show you how I earned my name,” he said. His hand brushed against John’s face, a mock lover’s caress, and John jerked away as much as his arms would let him. Azog laughed, pulling his hand away. “So much fear,” he whispered. “It makes you all the more delicious, little Halfling.” He moved away behind John, where he couldn’t see him.

John’s pulse was pounding in his neck, making his head throb all the more. The bruise where the gun had connected with his head was threatening to swell and close his left eye, leaving him all the more vulnerable. He tried to think with a soldier’s mind, tried to think back on all the training he’d been given for torture and interrogation sessions, but all he wanted to be was Bilbo. Bilbo, who was shivering and weeping over who he’d lost again.

No one was coming for him. He was alone, again. He was going to die alone, again, as he’d done for a few lifetimes. And Azog wasn’t going to let him die for a long time, if the former orc could help it.

“Thank you,” Azog said, startling him and making him flinch. “You gave me Thorin once more. If he had not come searching for you, I would never have known he existed. I had only hunted for you, but I was given an unexpected gift.”

John bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, tears stinging his eyes. His fault. He’d gotten them all killed again. Because he hadn’t been able to help talking to Sebastian, to have the once dwarf king as a friend, even if he was a sniper. And then he’d found out that he was truly Thorin, and he should’ve walked away but he’d been so _desperate_ , he’d wanted forgiveness and friendship and _love_ -

And he’d gotten Thorin killed, again. He hung his head.

“So thank you, little hobbit,” Azog whispered in his ear. John could feel something sharp against his side through his hospital gown, slowly ripping the cloth to shreds. “I wish to give you a gift equally as special as what you gave to me. Perhaps I will make your death swifter than I had intended.”

The first cut held pain, but John didn’t even feel it. He felt nothing. Numbness spread through his body, filling his ears with white noise. Azog’s voice faded out. The smell of blood began to waft through the air, but it was no concern of his. Nothing was.

Thorin was gone. His king, his Sebastian, gone. Fili and Kili, dead. His fault, god, all his fault. Sherlock, his friend, falling, all because he couldn’t say the right thing to make him stay. There was nothing left.

Nothing.

 

It took everything Sebastian had not to pull the trigger. Only because he didn’t have a clear shot did he stay his hand. There was a small chance he could hit John. Not a large chance, but a chance nonetheless. And given the state John was in, he really didn’t want to make it worse.

God, _John_.

He was hanging from a hook in the warehouse, much as he had been the day Sebastian had found him with the drug circle. Except this time, this time there was a lot more blood. It seeped through the hospital gown, staining the cloth. The sides of the gown were shredded on the sides, careful cuts meant to cause pain, not death.

He was hung just enough that his toes brushed the floor, but not enough to provide relief for his arms. High enough that it had to be pushing on his lungs: the Romans had known what they were doing with crucifixes. The main cause of death hadn’t been bleeding out, it’d been a torturous lack of air. And from the heaving, short breaths he could see through his scope, John was experiencing the same effect now.

His face, though, was what was probably causing Sebastian the most pain. There was a massive bruise around his temple near his eye, which was swelling shut. There was blood on his lips, a small trail going down his chin. But what made it worse was the dead look in his eyes he could see, the one that haunted Sebastian and made him want to howl his rage as a true dwarf king. Because that look meant there was no one home: he’d shut himself down. John had given up.

For the first time ever, Sebastian’s fingers shook on the trigger. _Pull it together, he NEEDS you,_ he told himself, but he couldn’t get his hand to steady. God, at this rate, he was going to be the one to kill John.

A careful, warm hand settled on his shoulder, and if he hadn’t heard the footsteps coming up behind him, he would’ve startled and set the gun off. “Relax,” Philip said quietly. “Just me.”

Sebastian gave a curt nod, unable to speak. They were two buildings away, far enough that Azog couldn’t possibly imagine someone setting up an attack. Thorin was careless, after all. Thorin went headstrong into a fight, never backed down. Thorin would attack first, ask questions later. And, as far as he knew, Thorin was dead.

As far as John knew, too. He’d put that dead look on John’s face, and it carved straight into his soul. _Don’t give up now, I’m here,_ he wanted to scream.

“We’ll get him back. It is a good plan,” his nephew admitted. “Hate to give him that, but Sherlock’s pretty damn smart. For a dragon.”

Sebastian nodded again. Sherlock’s plan involved the least amount of bloodshed and the least amount of pain on John’s part. That had been one of the only reasons he’d agreed. The other reason he’d agreed was to give John something. Something to cling to. His best friend alive was the only thing he could, right now, until Azog was dead.

“Can you actually shoot him from this distance?” Kyle asked, kneeling beside him on the edge of the roof. “I mean, I know we’re sort of diagonal from them, but it’s still through an upper window: I can’t even see them.”

“Use the binoculars, then, Kee.”

“I would if you didn’t have them, Fee.”

“You only had to ask.”

“Shouldn’t have to.”

“Are you _two_?”

For some reason, their inane squabbling was just what he needed. It settled his nerves, planted him firmly on the roof. _They’re alive. John’s alive. I can save him. I will not lose them, not now._ He took a deep breath and curled his finger around the trigger. His finger didn’t so much as twitch.

His nephews quieted beside him. How they’d known what he needed, he didn’t know. He’d thank them later, when every breath wasn’t focused on the end of his rifle. On John.

Azog was too close to John for a clear shot. Sebastian needed the distraction. He took a breath and spoke the only word he needed to. “Go,” he whispered into the mike on his collar.

The battle had begun.

 

It had stopped, a part of him realized. The pain had stopped.

The new pain, at least. The constant cuts in his side _burned_ and even being numb had only done so much. His shoulder screamed at him, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. Eventually, he was going to be sick. The short breaths he was taking could only do so much. His medical training knew exactly what was happening, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Prisoner. Good as dead.

Except he could hear things, now. The long screech of the door opening began to pull him from his reverie. The sudden jerk of his head flying backwards, Azog’s hand painfully wrapped in his hair, also helped. “Who dares enter?” Azog growled.

“I dare. I usually do.”

John slowly lifted his gaze. He was dead, then. Azog had managed to kill him. It was the only explanation he had for what he saw before him. But he was still in pain, still in so much pain, that he had to be alive.

That didn’t explain the man before him. The man he’d buried such a short time ago. The most brilliant man he’d ever known, his _best friend_ -

Sherlock. It was Sherlock. He gasped in a stuttered breath, staring in shock.

Azog growled. “You walk well for a dead man.”

“Asok of Hungary,” Sherlock said, sounding as casual as he did talking about the experiments in the fridge. His eyes finally met John’s, or at least, John thought they did. He couldn’t tell through his blurred vision. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,_ his mind kept repeating, and he focused on that, tried to pull strength from it, that his best friend was here. He had _someone_ here, and it wasn’t the others he’d gotten killed but somehow, Fate had deigned to give him someone back. Sherlock stood in front of him, his head somehow not caved in, and the only sign that he’d been hurt was, strangely enough, a split lip. There was no blood in his hair. He was alive.

John was going to pass out or throw up or some combination thereof.

“You will address me-“

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” Sherlock continued, overriding Azog’s words. It almost made John laugh. Same Sherlock, it seemed. Never giving a wit about anyone or their opinion. “Weapons, drugs. Besides taking on the occasional sniping contract. How much did Moriarty pay you? Well, would’ve paid you? Must’ve been a substantial amount.”

“You have come for your friend, but I have already laid claim,” Azog snarled. He pulled John’s head back farther, forcing a mewl from John’s throat. His shoulder was going to pop off, and at this rate, he was almost hoping it would. It would probably hurt less. “These matters are not of your concern.”

“Yes, they are,” Sherlock said. “We both want the same thing. Except we want it for very different reasons.” He paused, looking at John, and John wasn’t imagining the barely suppressed fury in his eyes. God he’d missed Sherlock. “Wish I’d thought to bring a first aid kit,” he said offhandedly to John. “Seems you’ll need someone to be a doctor for you. Maybe _roleplay_ one.”

John froze at the barely stressed word. Sherlock met his gaze briefly, just for a microsecond, then went back to Azog. There was no way he could’ve known about that. There was no way. Sherlock was good, but that was a specific conversation that had been held between John and three other individuals. There was no way he could know unless.

Unless he’d been told. _They’re alive,_ he thought with giddy relief. _Oh god they’re ALIVE._ He fought to keep it from his face.

“You won’t get into that web,” Sherlock continued. “Moriarty was a high level of intelligence, of mad brilliance. I could get in, if I wanted to, but not you. You’re nowhere close to as smart as they’re looking for. And their arms stretch far too wide to worry about you. You’re just a pawn. You’re not the lord and master, Asok. Your little schemes are just that: schemes that I was able to unravel in a frighteningly short amount of time. And you expect to be able to play with _them_? You’re nothing compared to them,” he finished darkly.

Azog let out a roar and moved his hand from John’s hair to his right arm and _pulled_. John choked out a scream as Azog pulled him off the hook. He hit his bare knees on the cold concrete floor. His shoulder _burned_ , oh god, the pain scorched through his arms until he thought he’d die from it. It sang through every vein in his body, hot and sharp and terrible, and his vision went white.

A sharp tug on his arm made him whimper and pull back to the present, cheeks wet and eyes burning as more tears fell helplessly from pain. He was pulled up against Azog, something pressing hard against his head. Gun, his mind supplied. Hostage, then. Sherlock looked as cool as ever, but John could see the apprehension in his eyes. “Discuss how I am _nothing_ now, Sherlock Holmes,” Azog said, and his breath was hot against John’s cheek. He shuddered and tried to twist away.

To John’s utter surprise, Sherlock held up his hands. “Your quarrel is with me, not John,” he said quietly. “I’m the one in your way. I’m the one you called out by kidnapping him, twice now. You knew it worked the first time, with your drug ring, and you knew it would work again. Well, here I am.”

Azog hadn’t meant to draw Sherlock out. Sherlock had it wrong. Sherlock _never_ had it that wrong. What the hell was Sherlock _doing_? “Here you are,” Azog said, sounding slightly confused but taking the advantage. “You think you are better than me? Think I cannot reach to tear the power from their grasp?”

Sherlock didn’t disagree, leaving John stunned. Or was that the blood loss? He was getting dizzy, dizzier than before, his vision going black around the edges, moisture still gathering in his eyes. Sherlock looked at him, his gaze almost pleading, and John forced himself to stay conscious. Sherlock needed him, for whatever reasons he didn’t know, but he’d be damned before he let Sherlock down again, before he let _any_ of them down again.

“I have more power than you imagined, Sherlock Holmes,” Azog said, and John felt it then: the gun tip wasn’t pressed so hard against his temple. Distraction. Oh, you brilliant man. You knew. “I took out the great Sebastian Moran.”

“The car bomb; I heard,” Sherlock said, putting in just the right amount of trepidation. Still, the images he brought up left John cringing. Sebastian was alive, he had to be. “I hadn’t expected that. The same way I hadn’t expected Moran to interfere with your drug ring. He spared John from being the perfect bait for me.”

His mind was getting sluggish, and Sherlock’s words were too precise now, it had to mean something. The drug circle – that had been Azog? The only thing he remembered had been the face he’d dreamed of seeing again suddenly right in front of him, and he’d nearly spoken the dwarf king’s name before he’d pulled himself together. Then Sebastian had saved him, pulled him down to the ground away from the bullets…

John whipped his eyes up to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him, then swung his gaze deliberately back to Azog. Azog, whose grip kept getting looser and looser. “He must have messed up your drug circle something terrible,” he said. “Well, really, it was more of a drug… _line_.”

John let himself fall. The loud crack of glass above him happened just as Azog jerked, then fell to the floor. His eyes were wide open, and there was a bloody hole in the side of his head. Perfect sniper shot, straight through his head. Thank god he’d dropped, John thought through the mud that was his brain. Could’ve been hit. Perfect sniper shot.

Sniper. Sebastian. _Sebastian_.

Hands pulled him to sitting, and suddenly it was a familiar black coat and a scarf the hospital hadn’t given him because they’d sworn it had been too ruined, too bloody, had to go for evidence, and then he was looking at wild and dark hair and bright blue eyes, concerned eyes, a familiar voice calling his name.

“Sherlock,” he croaked, and he pulled Sherlock from his knees to a lower position. “Oh god, _Sherlock_ -“

“You need medical attention, you’re bleeding-“

“I could _kill you_ ,” John said, and _there_ was the rage, the hurt, buried beneath his relief. “You, you’re alive, you’ve been alive, I thought…I thought-“

“I had to,” Sherlock said. “John, you don’t understand.”

“You couldn’t _tell me_? I deserved to _know_ , Sherlock!”

“They had your head in a sniper scope, it was the only way!” Sherlock shouted.

“ _I thought you were dead!_ ” John screamed, and the sob came out strangled. Sherlock stared, stunned for once into silence. “I-I buried you, I stared at your headstone and wanted to demolish it, I watched you _fall_ and listened to you say goodbye, _I thought you were dead_.”

Sherlock remained quiet. John pulled in gasping breaths, trying not to devolve into tears. His relief, where was his relief that Sherlock was alive? He didn’t want to scream at Sherlock, he didn’t want to curse or cry at his friend, his friend who was alive, but goddammit his anger was all he had right now.

“I hadn’t meant to come back.”

John blinked at the quiet words. “Not yet,” Sherlock continued. “It’s not done yet, John. There’s still…Moriarty’s web, there’s so many more involved, and I can’t leave it unfinished. I need to see it done.”

“You would’ve left me in the dark, then,” John said miserably. “You son of a bitch.”

“You would’ve been alive-“

“You’re my _friend_ ,” he snapped at last. “God, Sherlock, you’re my _best friend_ , didn’t it occur to you that I’d, I don’t know, liked to have known you were alive? Didn’t it occur to you that I’d _miss you_?”

Sherlock blinked, as if it hadn’t really occurred to him. God. John slowly shook his head. “For all your brilliance, you can be awfully dumb,” he said softly.

“John!”

Oh, he’d never been happier to hear that voice in his life. Philip came rounding right after his brother through the door, Kyle who was _alive_ and not dead in front of him, and behind them both-

Sherlock helped John to his feet, where he stayed for only a moment before Sebastian pulled him into his arms. “John, John, John,” he murmured like a mantra, and John let out a sob and clung to him.

“I thought-“

“I know. I know.” He kept murmuring soft things, quiet reassurances, his new name and his old age one and John thought he could stay here forever, right there: his feet cold on the concrete floor, his knees aching, his shoulder all but dead, his side burning with god knew what.

But Philip and Kyle were beside him, hugging him, Sebastian was wrapped up all around him, arms tight and firm and _alive_. And Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , alive-

Sherlock.

He turned around in Sebastian’s arms to speak to his friend, but Sherlock was gone. His heart stopped, his head whipping around the warehouse. Oh god, he hadn’t imagined it, had he? “Sherlock?” he called out desperately.

There, by the other side of the warehouse, something stopped in the shadows. After a moment, though, he turned, his bright eyes visible through the darkness. John swallowed, wishing he could ask for what he couldn’t have. Sherlock was on a mission, and he was right, Moriarty’s compatriots had to be taken down. And Sherlock was the only one smart enough to do it. He’d just hoped…he’d just hoped to do it with him. “Just a call,” he finally said. “Whenever, wherever. One word, two, it doesn’t matter. Just…let me know you’re alive. Please.”

“Until I come back,” Sherlock replied, and it was a promise in Sherlock’s language. John felt relief course through his system.

“Yeah. Until then.”

Sherlock suddenly smiled. “One more miracle, I suppose?”

John burst out a laugh that sounded possibly too hysterical, but Sebastian was holding him up and Philip and Kyle were there and he didn’t care. “Just one more,” he said, remembering how he’d begged at the gravesite. _Just…just one more miracle for me, Sherlock. Don’t be dead._

Sherlock gave him a wink and then, he was gone.

John let out a shaky breath. It pulled on his shoulder, just ever so slightly, but suddenly, it was too much. His legs crumpled beneath him, leaving Sebastian to try and catch him without falling over him. “John. John! _Bilbo!_ ”

“Dizzy,” he murmured, his tongue suddenly heavy. The hospital gown was soaked through with blood, some of it dried. His bare legs were laid against the cold, concrete floor, and the breeze from the ocean, however it was coming in, was so _cold_.

“Bilbo!”

“Wake up!”

Something warm pulled his knees from the floor, while something strong caught him around his back. Then he was being lifted, cradled in strong arms he knew so well. Arms he hadn’t lost. “Thought you were dead,” he breathed. “Thorin…”

“I’m here,” Thorin whispered. “Hush. You need aid.”

“Need you,” he murmured. His pale fingers found a firm chest, and he wrapped his fingers in the shirt. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” The warm voice was like a balm on his soul, putting together the shattered pieces. “I’m not dead.” Not dead. He hadn’t killed his friend, his lover, his king. _Thorin’s alive. He’s alive and he’s here._

They were moving, and then there were flashing lights and loud voices. He sighed and rested his head in the crook of Thorin’s neck. “Love you,” he murmured.

He faded out before he could hear any response.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we come to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll confess: I've been writing this story on two different computers, and sent what I thought was the most current version of it to my email so it'd be on the second computer, as I wouldn't have access to this one until today. Aaaaaand then I didn't. So I waited until today and went to look at my computer for the newest chapter of this AND my other fic, and I had this one but not the other. Hopefully I will sort of my brain at some point.
> 
> Don't read the end note: you'll spoil the best surprise.
> 
> I have flailing to do: Linc of Loncat Studios did a vid of my fic. THERE IS A VIDEO FOR MY FIC ASDFJKL; Go watch it and leave comments because it's AMAZING and filled with John/Sebastian Bilbo/Thorin goodness. Oh I keep flailing. It's AMAZING. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZSxWCtzmkw
> 
> Thanks to all for your comments and kudos, bookmarks and love. It's meant so much to me.

“He’s dead,” Sebastian said bluntly when Greg Lestrade and a tall, thin man came over. “Body’s inside.”

Greg sighed. “As wonderful as that is, I can’t have you running ‘round shooting people. No matter how vile or evil they are.”

“Self defense,” Kyle said, stepping up beside him.

“Just trying to defend himself,” Philip added from his other side.

“Can’t hold that against him.”

“Sure there’s a law about that.”

“Oh god,” Greg groaned, putting his head in his hands. “I didn’t know you came with your own chirping chorus.”

Sebastian let a smirk pull at his lips, even as his eyes sought out the reason for his relief. John was resting on the ambulance gurney, being attended to before they could move him. Underneath the shock blanket, he looked pale and still, but he was resting. He was alive. Just as alive as he’d been when Sebastian had carried him out to meet the medical team and Lestrade.

“It’s surprising,” the other man said at last. He almost reminded Sebastian of Gandalf, for some reason. Perhaps it was the umbrella in his hand, used almost as a staff. Or the dark, knowing look in his eyes as he stared at Sebastian. “How did you know he was here?”

“He is under my supervision, Mycroft.”

Mycroft turned to Gandalf. “Your supervision, James?” he asked.

James? “Yes,” Gandalf said, looking fairly annoyed when Sebastian grinned further. “My supervision. He acted under my ruling. As such, Detective Lestrade, you’ll note that this is not to be filed.”

“More secret agencies,” Lestrade muttered. “Just what I needed.”

“That means you can rest at ease,” Gandalf assured him. “Less paperwork, I would assume.”

Greg only looked slightly less ill. “You should probably see to the body, Detective,” Mycroft said, and Greg muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath but headed into the warehouse to do so. Sebastian watched him go, passing all the cars with flashing lights, before turning back to the two men who were currently staring at each other.

“James,” Mycroft said, as if trying the name out. Sebastian frowned.

“Mycroft,” Gandalf said in much the same fashion. “Mycroft _Holmes_.”

Sebastian blinked. “Holmes?” Philip said, eyes wide. “Are you related…?”

“Sherlock Holmes was my younger brother, yes,” Mycroft said tersely. “I’ll have you not speak ill of the dead.”

Sebastian rested a hand on his nephews’ shoulders, stalling anything they had to say. “We wouldn’t,” he said. “Just surprised. We hadn’t heard anything about you. We weren’t friends with Sherlock, however.”

“John knows of me,” he said. “We’ve met, several times. But then, I suppose he’s been…preoccupied lately. What with Asok running around.”

It took a moment for him to realize the name sounded odd on the other man’s tongue. As if he’d stressed the syllables. Mycroft gave them all a sharp nod, then turned and left. “Mycroft Holmes,” Gandalf said after a long moment. “Government Intelligence. Has an eye on the whole city, probably world. Always was a far-seer.”

“Far-seer?” Kyle asked, bewildered. “You know him?”

Gandalf looked amused. “I should hope so. I nearly didn’t recognize him, he looks so young now. Rómestámo, he was called once.”

The realization took far too long to hit, but Sebastian had nearly lost the man he loved again, and hadn’t slept in nearly 24 hours. He was allowed a slow moment. “From Middle-Earth,” he said.

Gandalf nodded. “Rómestámo the Blue. Bilbo asked, once upon a time, what the names of the other wizards were. I couldn’t remember what they’d gone by on Middle-Earth: among the Valinor, he was Pallando. The far-seer.”

“A wizard,” Kyle said.

“A wizard,” Gandalf confirmed.

Philip nodded. “So…James,” he said, and Sebastian bit his lip from laughing at the very un-amused glare Gandalf gave them. “James…?”

“You know, we can’t keep calling you Gandalf,” Kyle pointed out. “Could make some people talk. Especially with that…is that a _beret_ on your head?”

“You don’t look French, Mister James,” Philip said.

“I am _not_ French, I am whatever I please,” Gandalf growled. “As you should do well to remember, Mister Fili. Kili, you will address me as you knew me: I am Gandalf, as I ever was.”

“But what’s your name here?” Kyle pressed.

Gandalf sighed, and to Sebastian’s astonishment, he almost looked _embarrassed_. “When I worked for the government many, many years ago, I chose a name that was unassuming. Unfortunately, in my efforts to help and aid the British intelligence agencies, my deeds became…known. As did my name. And now, my name has begun its own legacy of stories.”

Sebastian began to grin. “No,” Philip said. “No _way_.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Kyle said gleefully. Sebastian almost felt sorry for the wizard. There would be no stopping his nephews, now.

He left the wizard there with his sister-sons, having caught the gurney being lifted to a moving position. John had an oxygen mask on and appeared to be out, but when Sebastian came closer his eyes fluttered open. He tried to speak, but Sebastian shook his head.

“Just rest. We’re all here, we’re all alive.”

John reached out. Sebastian took his hand, holding on as tight as he dared. “You’ll be all right,” he murmured. “And I won’t go anywhere. I’m right here.”

John nodded slightly. Laughter from behind him caught John’s attention, and he frowned, looking at Sebastian in askance.

Sebastian couldn’t stop the helpless laughter, relief only making it that much stronger. “Gandalf tipped his hand, gave up his new name,” he said. He leaned in towards John. “I’m certain if you asked, you could call him double-oh-seven.”

John began to laugh behind the oxygen mask before he started coughing, wincing as it pulled on his shoulder. Sebastian’s own smile fell, and he didn’t realize he was clutching at John’s hand until John squeezed back. “Sorry,” he mumbled. John could’ve died, it could’ve been so much worse. So, so much worse. For once, luck had been on his side.

John pulled his hand away, and Sebastian let it go reluctantly, only to frown when John rolled his eyes and pulled at his arm. He leaned in, baffled, until he was nearly nose to nose with John. With the last bits of his strength, John leaned up and tapped his forehead against Sebastian’s.

_The fire was muted beside them, and around the camp, snores rose into the air. Thorin leaned forward, carefully, oh so carefully, so as not to break the hobbit in front of him, and pressed his forehead against Bilbo’s. Bilbo pressed back with surprising strength, and suddenly this was more than the familial gesture Thorin had told the hobbit it was. This was not brotherly contact, as Balin and Dwalin did. This was…this was something more. The skin pressed against his was warm and smooth, and he could feel Bilbo’s breath mixing with his. This was…intimate. Beautiful._

The memory faded; the feeling did not. He leaned into it, closing his eyes, feeling the warmth of his beloved right there with him. The flashing lights reminded him of the camp fire, bright and vivid around them.

“Love you,” John rasped, and Sebastian opened his eyes. The idiot was smiling as him with the oxygen mask pulled down in his hand.

“Put that on, you need that.”

“Love you.”

Sebastian shook his head, and he wasn’t certain whether it was a sob or a laugh that came out. “You _idiot_ ,” he choked. “You blithering _idiot_.”

John laughed, wet and probably bloody, and god knew how long he was going to be in the hospital. “Love you,” he said, like it was all he wanted to say.

Sebastian leaned his forehead against John’s again and smiled. “Love you too,” he whispered.

Through the emergency personnel moving John into the ambulance, through John’s tired eyelids finally giving up the fight and pulling him into sleep, through the re-admission and doctors tending to him, Sebastian’s hands stayed firmly grasped in John’s.

 

It took two weeks for John to finally recover enough to get out of the hospital. Not that you would’ve known it, the way Sebastian prattled on.

“You should-“

“Oh for god’s sakes, Sebastian, if you don’t move out of my way right now I’ll show you exactly what I can do with a cane and you won’t like it.”

“Bossy little hobbit,” Kyle said from the sofa. He gave a cheeky grin when John glared at him.

“I’ll show you too. You and Philip both.”

“You should be grateful!” Philip cried. “We figured out Gandalf’s real name!”

All right, John had to admit, _that_ had made his day. Still, he wasn’t about to give the brats the satisfaction of knowing that. “What have you done for me lately?” he asked, and grinned when the two of them rolled their eyes.

“Whatever you want from the kitchen, I can get it,” Sebastian insisted. John sighed.

“I’m not going up to the second floor, you know. I’m just going across the room.”

“I’ll spare you the hassle.”

“ _You’re_ a hassle.”

Sebastian wasn’t budging. Unfortunately for him, neither was John. “I need to walk,” John finally said, and if he sounded a little pleading, well, he wasn’t above it. Condemned to the cane again, and wasn’t that perfect? “Just…you can follow if you want, but I need to walk.”

Whether it was his words or his tone, he didn’t know, but Sebastian finally stepped aside, though with extreme reluctance. John nodded in gratitude and headed for the kitchen. Just a cup of tea, that’s all he wanted. The cane was there just to support him; though his legs hadn’t been injured, they’d wanted him to ‘take it easy’ and give his body a break. His stressed lungs, his battered side, his slight head trauma, and, of course, his bloody arm, which was still bound up as if he’d broken it. Thus, the cane.

He finally made it over to the kitchen, feeling a little more winded than he’d expected. Sebastian looked as if he wanted to say, “I told you so,” but withheld, thank god. “Can you get me the tea box?” John asked, his breathing a little heavy. Dammit. At least Sebastian didn’t say anything and just reached for the tea box, high on a shelf. Much higher than it should’ve been; probably placed there deliberately out of his reach. John couldn’t even dredge up the energy to glare at him.

Off on the sofa, Kyle laughed at something Philip had said, and John regarded them with a warm smile. They were alive; god that was never going to get old. They were talking happily, smiles on their faces, as if the horrors from several weeks ago hadn’t happened. The memory of Kili’s haunted face in the hospital, though, wasn’t something he was going to forget.

He poured himself the hot water from the kettle – already done by Sebastian, of course – and leaned in towards Sebastian. Sebastian immediately stepped to his side, then frowned when John obviously didn’t need him for physical support. “You might want to talk to Fili about the battle,” John murmured. “I talked with Kili a bit. There’s…residual pain there. Trauma. I stirred up some of it when I got shot.”

Sebastian’s face went dark, but eventually he nodded. “I had wondered,” he murmured, and there was the dwarven lilt. It really shouldn’t have been that attractive, but there were a lot of things he shouldn’t have found attractive. He was a bit touched in the head, really.

He was decidedly okay with that.

“Just a thought for you to keep,” he said quietly, then paused. “Did you put the honey on a high shelf, too?” he asked dryly.

To his credit, Sebastian had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Trying to keep you safe,” he said. “You’re doing too much too soon.”

“Hm. Stubborn, not listening to others, trying to do too much after being hurt. Must be a little dwarf in me,” John said with a grin.

“God, just don’t do it when we’re around,” Philip groaned.

“Actually, sounds a bit like an insult to Uncle; we Durin’s sons aren’t ‘little’,” Kyle said with a broad grin.

John could’ve sworn that if he’d been set on fire, his face wouldn’t have felt so hot. “You know what I meant!” he snapped, and Sebastian wasn’t helping, the bastard, just standing beside him laughing that huge belly laugh he did. “You’re all terrible,” John muttered.

“Aw, c’mon,” Kyle said with a grin. “We’re a least a little bit funny. You’ve just got the sense of humor of a dragon. We can’t help that.”

“Hm. Would explain Sherlock,” John muttered. Man had always had an odd sense of humor. The thought of his friend didn’t bring pain, as it used to, but a small hint of warmth and relief. Sherlock was _alive_. And when he came back, John was going to _punch_ him, the way Sebastian apparently had.

Suddenly he realized the room had gone silent. He glanced up from his tea, frowning at the open-mouthed faces he was getting. “What?” he asked, then realized. “You didn’t know about Sherlock being Smaug?”

“ _You_ knew?” Philip asked, shocked.

“We thought you hadn’t known!”

John blinked. “Of course I knew,” he said. “I saw and spoke to him more than any of you did, you know. You don’t forget those eyes easily. They might be more blue, less red and fiery, but…you still remember them.” No, he wouldn’t forget those eyes so easily. “His voice hasn’t changed, either. Still deep, still knowing.”

“You never mentioned it,” Sebastian said, and when John turned to him, he wasn’t certain what to make of the emotion. Maybe…hurt?

“He was my friend,” John said softly. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything, but by the time you admitted you remembered me, he was…and it wasn’t worth bringing up.” Sherlock falling was still going to haunt him, the same as Kyle being shot in front of him. He blamed it on the haze of shock that he hadn’t noticed the lack of blood. _They’re alive. Everything’s going to be fine._

“He was a fucking pain in the ass,” Sebastian muttered. “More in this life than the life before, I think.”

John snorted in amusement. “Of course he is. He grows on you, though.” And he’d never be thankful enough that Sherlock was alive to be irritating.

Three heavy knocks landed on the door.

Everyone stilled. Philip and Kyle immediately launched themselves off the sofa, picking up the guns from the table. John didn’t even offer a protest when Sebastian stepped in front of him. He did take the opportunity to lean his cane against the counter and put his good hand in Sebastian’s, and was rewarded with a firm squeeze of assurance. _Always there,_ he’d promised when they’d taken John to the hospital again.

He hadn’t left yet.

Philip looked out the peephole of the safe house door, then frowned, peering further. “Fee?” Kyle whispered. Not someone they knew, then. Sebastian tensed in front of him.

After a second, however, Philip’s face cleared. He pulled the door open to Sebastian’s sharp protest, and then everyone sort of went quiet.

A tall, bald man stood in front of him. His short beard and mustache were light brown with specks of silver and white in them. But it was his eyes that told John exactly who he was looking at.

“Dwalin!” Kyle said happily, then peered out the door behind him. “Ori!”

Dwalin stepped inside, nodding to Sebastian. “Hiding the wee hobbit?” he asked. “What’d you do with yer beard?”

Sebastian let out a laugh, eyes bright. “Didn’t need it. Didn’t want it. It’s good to see you, Dwalin.”

Dwalin came over and gave John a nod. “It’s David,” he said, glancing back at the door. It was definitely Ori, though he was clean-shaven and wearing a button up plaid shirt. And, of course, Gandalf was right behind them. “And Owen. Times’ve changed, y’know.”

“Not completely,” Sebastian said. David glanced down at John’s hand, still clasped in Sebastian’s, and rolled his eyes.

“Lost a bet back an age ago, y’know. Thought for sure one of ya would _do_ somethin’ ‘bout it.”

John scowled at him. David let out a laugh. “Shouldn’t scowl so; you didn’t lose money,” the taller man said.

“Fili and Kili, I still have enough magic to make you firmly regret what you are about to do.”

They glanced over towards the door, where Kyle was looking innocently up at Gandalf’s thunderous face. “It’s just a bit of fun,” he insisted. Somehow, in his hands, he’d found a cheap, costume wizard’s hat. “You really should have one. You keep switching hats; we figured it’s because you haven’t found one like your old one.”

“I’m quite content with my current hats, thank you very much. Perhaps I’ve been enjoying the multitude of hats that one can wear.”

“You’re wearing a short top hat,” Philip pointed out. Owen had quickly moved to the side, but he looked more amused than frightened. Apparently he hadn’t learned anything from ages past. “Really, you should rethink your life choices.”

“My life-!”

Too late, he realized he’d been distracted. Kyle reached up and, in one fell swoop, replaced Gandalf’s hat with a…

“Is that a _sombrero_?” Sebastian asked incredulously.

Kyle and Philip howled. Gandalf looked like he would knock their heads together, or off, with his cane.

“You’re right – hasn’t changed a bit,” Dwalin said. He gave Sebastian a hearty clasp on the shoulder, then went back towards the door, where Owen was moving away to ensure he wasn’t wrapped in the same wrath as Kyle and Philip.

“Not a bit,” Sebastian echoed softly, and when John looked up, Sebastian was smiling at him. John’s cheeks warmed, but for a good reason this time. “My burglar.”

“My king,” John said, and it was Thorin who leaned down to press his forehead against his. Bilbo closed his eyes and pressed back. 

“Return my hat to me at once!”

Bilbo just grinned. “You know, I think I need to sit down again. Somewhere I can see the whole room.”

“I believe I can find a suitable place,” Thorin replied, sounding just as amused as Bilbo was.

A lot had changed. But the most crucial parts hadn’t.

And for Bilbo, for John, that was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Admit it, Gandalf makes a FINE James Bond. Who else could've pulled off all those amazing things and had timing to save the day at the very last minute?
> 
> My gracious love to y'all for putting up with me and my cliffies. If you want more Thilbo Bagginshield love, I have more in a regularly (and I mean every other day regularly) updated fic, set in the more canon Middle-Earth.
> 
> Until next time, thanks for hanging out with me and reading; you've been a blast to share with. :)


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